


Postmodern Philosophy

by iFlail



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Pre-Star Trek Beyond, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8361412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iFlail/pseuds/iFlail
Summary: Sometimes a fever has to get worse before it gets better, and the warp core gave him one hell of a fever. When the admiralty suggests Jim take some time off planet to come to terms with his own death and subsequent resurrection, there is, of course, a logical choice of chaperone to ensure his well-being while he recovers. After all, misery loves company.





	1. Chapter One

“It was the warp core again.”

“Jim.”

It's nothing new—that much at least Jim can admit to himself. He knows he has a problem. He attracts them like a barn attracts flies, Bones once griped.

But this one? The phantom burn of radiation is still crawling under his skin, and he wants to scratch it away until his skin bleeds. He can still see the blisters peeling on the back of his hands, red and flaky, before his eyes cloud over with cataracts and he can’t see anything at all, can’t feel his heart, or catch his breath—

And that’s when he usually wakes up.

He _died_. Dead. And by some miracle there’s still air in his lungs and a heartbeat in his chest, and by all rights he _shouldn’t be here_ —

He’s allowed to have a few nightmares. Even if it has turned into a problem.

“—Jim. Jim, are you alright?” Spock’s voice is tinged with alarm. He realizes he hasn’t said another word since he first commed.

“Yeah.” He sniffs tiredly, running a hand through his hair. It’s greasy. He can’t remember when he last used the sonics, he realizes absently. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“This is the fourth nightmare of which I am aware since your discharge from medical.” _Eleven in two weeks, actually_ , Jim thinks. “Such a pattern would not indicate you are ‘ _good_ ’.” Relief colors Spock’s voice anyway, and Jim flops back onto his pillow, smiling despite himself.

A little voice that sounds a lot like Bones drawls that his inclination to call Spock is clearly the more interesting pattern—though not one he’s willing to examine particularly closely. But the thing is, he tells himself, Spock was there, when he died. He was there when he woke up. And now, for reasons Jim can’t divine, Spock is there in the middle of the night, when he wakes up grasping for his comm a little more desperately than he wants to admit.

He’s becoming… dependent on Spock. It’s a strange feeling, needing someone else. For as long as he’s been alive, he’s been on his own, and now Spock. Well. Spock is _there_.

“Nah, Spock, I’m fine. Promise.”

He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“How was your appointment with Dr. Angelo?” Spock probes. He sighs and the comm crackles.

“It was fine,” he says truthfully. He’s worried he’s starting to sound like a broken record. But it _was_. Perfectly fine. Not exactly groundbreaking in speeding up his recovery, per se, but perfectly nice as far as therapy goes. Safe, he supposes.

“Fine has variable definitions, Jim,” Spock says gently. “If you find she is unhelpful, it may be in your best interest to request a new doctor—”

“Spock, really, she's fine, it's just… I think it's me.” He stares blankly at his ceiling. There’s a scuff mark where he killed a spider with a broom two years ago. “Being cooped up... Not seeing you, or the rest of the crew, isn't doing me any favors.”

It’s the truth, too. It’s been hard to remember that while he laid prone in the hospital, the world kept spinning. By the time he was released, the bridge crew had been debriefed and the Enterprise was already under refit—and Jim is on temporary probation under the guise of mandatory medical leave until admiralty decides whether his decision to breach the Klingon neutral zone warrants a court martial.

A lump starts to swell in his throat, and he blinks frustratedly. Spock is quiet on the other end, and he marvels detachedly at how Spock has managed to pull more from him in five minutes than his therapist did in an hour. He sniffs, somewhat wetly.

“I feel trapped in my own head,” he manages finally. Spock is still silent, and Jim feels his heart sink. This was a terrible idea. All he wants now is to hang up, bury himself in his blankets until it's at least noon, maybe, and he opens his mouth to say as much when Spock replies.

“I... believe I know the feeling.”

Jim laughs hoarsely. He rolls over, placing the comm on the empty pillow at his side. His sheets are drenched with sweat but his chest is swelling with affection, and he doesn't care enough to move.

“Yeah?” He hopes Spock can’t pick up on the edge of hysteria in his voice. “What would I do without you, Spock?”

Exhaustion weighs heavy at his limbs. He's not sure he wants to know the answer, but he gets it anyway.

“You would survive, Jim.” He stares at the space beside him, wondering at the assuredness in Spock’s voice.

It’s more than he deserves.

“You should get some sleep. One of us should, at least.”

“Jim, I assure you—” Jim can almost see the crease between Spock's brows.

“I know, I know, superior biology. Don't need to tell me again.” He smiles hollowly in the dark of his room. “’Night, Spock.”

There's a pause, and then—

“Goodnight, Jim.”

He doesn't dream again that night.

* * *

Waking up is more of a relief than Jim likes to admit. Sunlight streams in through his window, soft and pink, and casts shadows on his bare walls. He rubs at his eyes till he sees spots, and leans over the side of the bed to fish for the shirt he had tossed on the floor the night before. His fingers find nothing but carpet, and he rolls back onto his mattress with a grunt of frustration. He rubs his face blearily, feeling the scratch of week-old stubble on his palms. His skin feels sensitive, and he raises his hands above his eyes, examining them in the morning light.

They're unmarked. The skin is smooth, if a little dry, but otherwise free of blemishes. The burn scar on the back of his hand from a loose wire under the navigation console is gone, and the freckle on the inside of his right pointer finger is just starting to show again. His palms are almost unbearably soft. He’s going to have to earn his calluses back, he thinks, annoyed.

They’re his hands, big and square as they’ve always been, and yet, they’re not.

Jim sighs sharply and gets to his feet. He finds his shirt at the foot of his bed and tugs it over his head, and reaches for his comm on the nightstand, but his hand meets nothing but wood. He looks around wildly for a moment, irritation mounting, before spotting it laying stark against his sheets. It’s still on his pillow.

Right.

Shame floods his cheeks as it comes rushing back. He called Spock again. Spock, the _Vulcan_ , is the one he runs to like a scared kid seeking out his mother in the middle of the night. It's more than a little humiliating.

He has to stop while he's ahead. Spock isn't always going to be there to save him from the monsters under his bed, and he doubts Spock wants to be, anyway. _Vulcan_ , he reminds himself. _And spoken for._

His stomach flips unpleasantly in his gut. He's not exactly sure why that matters. He's not exactly sure he wants to know.

He goes to shove his comm in his pocket, but stops short. It's blinking—he has a message. Probably Bones, he reasons, calling to “check in” for the millionth time this week. Two days after Jim was discharged, Bones left for Georgia. Something about Jojo, and making up for lost time. Jim didn't have the heart to hold it against him.

“This doesn't mean you're off the hook,” Bones had warned, standing outside Jim’s door. “I'm still your doctor, you hear me? You so much as sneeze, and I wanna know about it.”

“You got it, Saw-Bones,” Jim smirked.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mere, kid.” Bones pulled him in tight, and Jim let himself sag against him. Damn it all, but he was gonna _miss_ Bones.

He still does.

Jim wonders why he hasn't told him about the nightmares.

He shakes his head clear of the thought, flipping his comm over in his hand. Jojo turns seven this month, Jim realizes suddenly, as he starts the message. He ought to send her a present.

“ _Kirk, this is Commodore Paris._ ” Jim’s heart seizes in his chest. Not Bones, then. “ _I’d like for you to stop by my office today, at your earliest convenience. This is not a request. Please don't feel the need to comm ahead. The desk will be expecting you._ ”

His heart pounds in his chest. _Time to pay the piper_ , his mind whispers nastily. He listens to the message again and sinks onto his bed as it plays, feeling suddenly drained. _Resigned_ , more like. If he's lucky, he’ll be demoted to first officer under someone else's command.

 _Maybe Spock's_ , he thinks humorlessly. Spock would be a good captain.

But worst case scenario? Jim swallows thickly. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to go to the meeting. But even then, he doesn't want to know what the consequences are for not showing up.

There's a lot of things he doesn't want, but tends to get anyway.

Taking a shaky breath, Jim stands and turns to his closet. His dress uniform hangs creased and perfect at the end of the rack. According to Bones, they hadn't known if they were going to need it for his burial. Spock had taken it to be cleaned and pressed. He shudders, imagining what that was like for him—imagines having to do it for _Spock_ —and runs his hand over the material. His brow furrows. It feels scratchy—he doesn’t remember it being so coarse.

He has to force himself out of his pajamas and into the sonics before the thought of ignoring Paris’s orders becomes too appealing. He steps into pants that are just this side of too loose, and fastens buttons at his throat that feel horribly tight. The Medal for Valor pinned at his breast catches the light in the corner of his eye, and he sucks in a breath just to make sure he can.

He turns to his mirror as he places his hat on his head. He _looks_ perfectly healthy. Maybe a little thinner than he was a month ago, and the shadows under his eyes aren't exactly doing him any favors, but outwardly, he looks like he's thriving.

Inside, he feels like he never came out of the warp core.

He forces himself away from the mirror and glances at the clock. The shuttle to the Academy leaves in five minutes.

Time to pay the piper.

This time, his comm manages to make it to his pocket as he leaves his apartment. It’s nice outside, he notes absently, not that the bay is ever anything but mild and balmy. He hasn't left his apartment since he arrived there two weeks ago, and the sun on his face feels good. He looks around as he descends the stairs. His street hasn’t changed too much since he was last on leave. He recognizes a few of his neighbors, and—

They’re all staring at him.

The weather doesn't seem that nice anymore, and he has a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to crawl under a rock.

He’s knows it’s not exactly a secret where he lives. “A ship doesn’t crash into the city without a little media coverage,” Bones had warned before signing off on his release papers. Jim walked out of the hospital to a swarm of flashing cameras and the shouts of reporters. He found out later someone leaked the ship’s security tape to the press.

His death and subsequent resurrection have been plastered all over the news for weeks.

Jim had hoped the worst of it would be over, but as passerby openly gawk as he stands awkwardly at the end of the sidewalk, he feels those hopes fizzle and burn out. But no one seems curious enough to approach him. _Small blessings_ , the Bones-voice drawls in his head. He can see the shuttle approaching down the street, and hurries to the curb to catch it before anyone changes their mind.

It comes to a screeching halt in front of him, and he ducks his head as he climbs aboard, reaching for his credit chip—only to stop short, smiling sheepishly at the driver.

“Sorry, forgot my—”

“— _is that James Kirk?”_

A hush comes over the shuttle.

He’s not sure who said it, but the shuttle pilot’s eyes are as big as saucers as recognition sparks within them, and Jim once again finds himself wishing for a rock to crawl under.

“I’ll catch the next one,” he says quickly, backing out of the hatch, but the pilot shakes his head vigorously.

“Please, I insist.” His voice is accented—he sounds a bit like Bones, but that’s where the similarities end—and he waves toward the aisle of seats. Jim swallows.

_Small blessings. Small blessings._

Jim smiles tightly and sits as quickly as he can. He pointedly ignores the stares of the other passengers, looking steadfastly at his hands—all of a sudden far more interesting than they were this morning—and trying to block out the world around him. A camera shutter clicks a few rows ahead of him and he flinches. Two rows back, a pair of blue skinned girls whisper excitedly in a language he doesn’t understand, but he makes out “ _—chan Captain Kirk tho—_ ” and resents them solely for the fact that he can no longer pretend they were talking about anything but him.

Across the aisle, a human boy, no older than five, is staring unblinkingly at his face.

He’s dusty blond, with round baby cheeks and soft blue eyes. He looks a little like Chekov, Jim thinks, and manages a smile. _He’s just a kid,_ he reminds himself.

The boy looks at his mother, absorbed in a PADD, and slides from his seat. Dread fills Jim’s stomach, and he twists toward the viewport, hoping he exudes _stay away_ as well as he can without having to say the words aloud—and _to a kid_ , no less.

Jim can still see the boy’s reflection in the glass. For a moment, all he does is stand there, looking back and forth between Jim and his mother, before he seems to make a decision. He takes slow steps across the aisle, wobbling as the shuttle shakes. He pauses halfway, and looks back at his mother—still glued to her PADD.

Jim feels more than sees the kid slide into the seat next to him. He doesn’t turn away from the viewport, and the boy doesn’t say anything.

 _Fine,_ he thinks. _This is fine, I can handle sitting next to a kid. Just pretend it’s Chekov. Sure._

A tiny hand pokes his shoulder.

 _Shit_.

“Are you Captain Kirk?” The boy is looking at him curiously—and so is the rest of the shuttle, with the notable exception of the kid’s mother. Irritation lances through him, but the boy is still looking at him expectantly, and he manages what he hopes passes as a smile.

“That's what they tell me,” he says, and the boy nods solemnly. Jim’s eyes flick to the rest of the passengers—everyone is still watching. He swallows nervously. “What about you, what's your name, huh?”

“It's Gray.”

“Well, uh, don't you think you should go sit with your mom, Gray?” Jim points across the aisle to Gray’s oblivious mother. “I think she misses you.” He winces. It's weak and he knows it.

Gray wiggles further into his seat. “No. It’s okay.”

Apparently Gray knows it, too.

“Oh,” Jim says, blinking. “Are you sure—”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Jim stares. Gray is looking at him again with those big, earnest eyes, and the Bones-voice is laughing at him in the back of his head. He can already imagine the headlines: _James T. Kirk: Mutineer and Child Hater?_ He runs a tired hand over his face.

_Just a kid. Just a kid, just a kid, just a kid—_

“Yeah,” he manages, with a tight smile. “Yeah, sure, kid. Shoot.”

Gray’s eyes flick to his mother one last time, before he gestures Jim closer. Jim hesitates. Most of the other passengers have gone back to minding their own business. He takes a deep breath and leans down to Gray’s level.

“What does dying feel like?”

_I’m scared, Spock. Help me not be._

_It hurts._

Jim shoots to his feet, yanking the the pull cord until the shuttle screeches to a halt. Gray reels back in surprise, falling to the floor as tears well dolefully in his eyes. Jim can't bring himself to care. He steps over him as he bursts into tears, ignoring the profanities his mother—finally deciding to look up from her PADD—yells after him.

He can hear the pilot shout after him as he stumbles through the hatch onto the pavement, gasping for breath. The air feels thin and his knees feel weak, and he staggers to the closest stoop before collapsing onto the lowest stair. He can't breathe. He can't breathe because his lungs are on fire, they're _irradiated_ , and his vision is going blurry because he's dying, that's what this is—

“—you alright out there, Cap?”

_I will go with you, Captain._

A shiver runs down his spine, nausea roiling in his gut. Jim grasps at the concrete under his fingers. Cool. A breeze brushes across his face, and it smells salty. A horn blares from somewhere behind the shuttle.

San Francisco. Not the warp core.

He looks up, squinting at the shuttle. The pilot is looking back at him, his face caught somewhere between curious and troubled.

“Motion sickness,” Jim chokes out, dropping his head between his knees. His eyes are damp. That's new.

“You need me to call someone?”

Jim shakes his head, waving him off. He hears more than sees the shuttle pull away, and he sits there, breathing in and out just because he can. The breeze is still blowing, a little chillier than comfortable, and he stays on the step until the tips of his fingers start to numb. At the very least until his head doesn't feel like it’ll spin off his shoulders if he so much as moves.

Another shuttle passes before he finally looks around. He's on a back road, a quiet little residential neighborhood somewhere south of the Academy. He thinks he can vaguely recognize a house he'd been to for a party once, when he was a cadet.

It's all so mundane that a hysterical laugh bubbles suddenly up his throat. Of all the shuttles to take, he gets the one with the morbid child. _Unbelievable_.

Jim takes a shuddering breath. He has a meeting to get to. The street sign at the corner says Green and Stockton. Right. There’s still nine blocks to headquarters.

He starts walking.

* * *

Jim is suddenly far more grateful for the nice weather than he was before.

He keeps his head ducked, the brim of his hat pulled low over his face, and no one gives him a second glance as he walks into headquarters. He’s not as much of a celebrity to the brass as he is to the public. More of a thorn in their sides, Komack would probably say.

Nerves flutter in his stomach as he gets on the elevator. Paris’s office is on one of the middle floors of the building. He’s not sure if it bodes well that his meeting is with the commodore, rather than one of the higher ranking admirals of the ‘Fleet. Stripping him of his captaincy can’t exactly be high on their to do lists in the wake of the mess Khan—Marcus, rather—made of the Federation’s uneasy peace with the Klingons. Then again, given his role in the direct violation of the neutral zone, they should probably be jumping at the chance to take his ship.

He has no idea what to expect.

The elevator opens and Jim swallows anxiously. Aside from a secretary sitting at his desk, the floor is empty, and he almost wants to laugh at himself. Part of him expected security to be at the door, waiting to take him away somewhere he can’t be responsible for fucking anything else up.

Instead, there’s chairs.

“You can take a seat if you’d like.”

Jim jumps at the voice. _Jesus, Kirk, get a grip._

He looks sheepishly at the secretary, who smiles placidly back. “Commodore Paris is in another meeting right now, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Jim nods, at a loss of what else to do, and perches on the edge of one of the chairs. Acid is burning the back of his throat, and he finds himself fiddling with his thumbs for the third time that day.

He’s not ready for this, he realizes. He doesn’t _want_ to leave Starfleet. He loves his job, and his friends, and he’s not sure even where else he has to go. Iowa? Fuck that. The backs of his eyes start to burn with tears, and he swipes at them frustratedly. Bones is going to have a cow, when he hears. He’ll probably try to resign his own commission, Jim knows, except Jim would never let him.

He has no doubt the rest of the crew will put up one helluva fight to keep him. He’s not exactly sure he deserves it, but combined, maybe they can convince the admiralty to bump him to ensign. It won’t be the same as the chair, but if doing the grunt work crawling up Jefferies tubes means he gets to stay aboard his ship, well, beggars can’t be choosers.

And Spock… He finds he wants to leave Spock least of all.

He wonders what Pike would think of all this, and his eyes start to burn all over.

“ _Captain!”_

His head snaps up at the voice, and then ducks down just as quickly as he tries—and fails, he’s sure—to wipe subtly at his eyes.

Sulu is trotting toward him, looking equal parts elated and concerned, and Jim isn’t sure he wants to know what he looks like right now. But he’s so glad to see _someone_ that he all but jumps to his feet just in time to catch him as he wraps Jim in a fierce hug. _God_ , but he’s missed his crew.

He clutches at the back of Sulu’s uniform—dress, like his. Jim wonders vaguely what he’s doing here before he pulls back.

“—Uhura said she hadn’t heard from you either, and Doctor McCoy isn’t allowed to tell us anything that isn’t already on the news—” Sulu looks disgusted. Whether it’s at Bones or the media, Jim can’t tell, but either way he feels lighter than he has in weeks, and a laugh threatens to burst out out of his gut. Instead he grins.

“ _Sulu_. It’s good to see you, too.” Sulu hasn’t let go of his arms, and his face is almost uncharacteristically twisted with worry. Jim has never seen him look anything but collected, and it’s his fault.

“Where the hell have you _been_ , Jim?”

The smile slowly falls from Jim’s face. _House arrest._

“Bed rest,” he says instead, “Doctor’s orders.” He can practically see Sulu’s bullshit detector go off. His brow furrows, and he looks like he’s going to say more, but Jim beats him to it.

“How’s my crew?” he asks, and Sulu’s face softens into an easy smile.

“They’re great, Jim, really. Everyone misses you.” Guilt explodes in his stomach, and he can feel his face burning, but Sulu either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it. Jim knows it’s the latter.

“No one’s seen Scotty, he’s been so busy with the ship. Uhura’s pissed about it too, she says it’s _insensitive_ and that we should all be sticking together. You’re gonna have hell to pay once she tracks you down,” Sulu shrugs, grinning. “But I think it’s just how he copes. Chekov’s been helping him out, and he says Scotty’s always asking if he’s heard anything about you. I haven’t seen much of Spock, to be honest. I heard he’s teaching again, since we’re grounded.”

Jim’s stomach flutters at his name. _Spock’s on campus right now_ , he realizes. He’s _minutes_ away, at most, and he can go see him in person for once, after his meeting—

He shakes his head clear of the thought. _Distance_ , he reminds himself, swallowing thickly.

“What about you, how are you doing?” Jim prompts, giving his attention back to Sulu. Except Sulu hesitates, and Jim wonders why, until he remembers where they are. _I got him in trouble_ , he realizes with mounting horror. Sulu was acting captain under Jim’s orders, of course there were going to be consequences—

“I’m-I’m not going to let them punish you, too,” he says weakly. “You were just following orders—” The air is starting to feel thin again.

“What are you talking about?” Sulu looks bewildered. “Jim, they want to give me the Saratoga. That’s why I’m here.”

Jim’s heart lurches, and it must show on his face because now Sulu looks guilty, and Jim feels even worse, even as relief floods his body.

“It’s a Miranda class, just a science vessel,” Sulu says quickly. “It’s just until the refit is finished, and I’ll be be back on board the Enterprise as her navigation officer. Paris says it’s character building. Good for the resume, and all that. Jim, did they _court martial you_ —?”

“Captain Kirk.”

Paris is standing at the door to her office, looking at him expectantly, and his stomach twists painfully.

“Jim—”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

He can feel Sulu’s fist clench on his sleeve, and he offers what little smile he can.

“Duty calls,” he says, watching Paris retreat into her office. He claps Sulu’s shoulder gratefully, receiving a pained look in return, and when he finally drags his leadened feet into Paris’s office, Sulu is still standing there when the door shuts behind him.

“How are you feeling?”

Paris’s office is spacious, lit by a panoramic window with an admittedly stunning view of the bay, but the only things in the room are her desk, and the three chairs that sit around it, and… it’s cold. Jim smiles emptily at the question.

“I’m doing well, ma'am.”

Paris shoots him a wry look, and he knows she sees right through him.

“You and I both know that’s a lie, Captain,” she says, and he struggles to hold her piercing gaze. She’s undeniably the most formidable woman he’s ever met, with the exception of maybe Uhura. “I’d like it very much if we could cut the formalities and be honest with each other.”

She’s watching him expectantly, and he swallows.

“I’ve… been better.”

For reasons he can’t fathom, Paris looks amused, and irritation bubbles in his stomach. She might as well just fire him and get it over with, he thinks, annoyed. She gestures toward one of the chairs.

“Take a seat, Kirk.” He’d rather not. But Paris is watching him steadily and he knows refusal doesn’t bode well, so he sits, and she looks pleased, walking around to the other side of the desk to take a seat across from him.

“I was Captain of the Constitution for fourteen years.” Jim blinks, and she smiles. “There’s a moral to every story, Kirk. I ask that you listen to mine.”

His heart is still pounding nervously in his chest, and he examines her face for anything other than the earnest patience she’s showing him now before nodding slowly, and she smiles at him again.

“I was the first woman to be given a chair,” she continues in her soft accent, and Jim perks up at the detail.

“I remember that,” he realizes aloud, regretting it almost instantly.  But Paris is looking at him with interest, so he continues. “The news story. My mom and I, we— we watched it together when it aired.”

The memory is clearer than he thinks he’d like it to be.

Frank was gone the minute Winona came home to Sam missing and bruises on Jim's face.

He remembers the screaming match, and the sirens of the authorities outside his window as he laid in his bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. He remembers hearing glass shatter, and wincing as the police dragged a hissing and spitting Frank from their house, his heart pounding with adrenaline even though he knew he was safe now.

He remembers the quiet, afterward.

It was dark by the time he crept downstairs. A broken beer bottle laid in sticky pieces on the floor, and he crept toward the kitchen where the lights were on, finding his mother sniffling over the sink. Blood dripped from a cut on her finger, and she was wrapping it up in an old rag. He tried to sneak away, wincing when he stepped on a creaky floorboard and she whirled around to face him, her face crumpling as she swept him into a hug before he could run away.  

“I'm so sorry, baby,” she had whispered, and Jim felt all the fight leave his body, grasping at her shoulders as a sob caught in his throat. “Can you ever forgive me? I am so _sorry—”_

 _“_ I forgive you,” he choked out, and she pulled back with a watery smile, wiping his eyes with her thumbs.

“Don’t let _anyone_ tell you you can’t do something, Jim, you hear me?” She gripped his face, shaking him lightly, and Jim remembers feeling terrified, watching more tears well in her eyes. One of them had a bruise to match his. “People like Frank haven’t done a damn thing in their whole lives. You don’t listen to them. _Promise_ _me_ , Jimmy. Don’t you listen.”

“I promise.”

They were sitting in the den of their old farmhouse when Paris’s story aired later that night. He was curled into her side, and she stroked his hair back from his face, and he remembers her watery smile, and answering it with one of her own.

She was barely home for a week before she was recruited for another mission, and Jim was whisked away to live with his grandparents. And then she had died in space, days before his thirteenth birthday. The town whispered that it was _poetic_. Jim hadn’t thought there was a damn thing poetic about it. The only silver lining—Grampa and Mammy, as he had called them, were the best damn people he ever knew.

He wonders what they would think of him now.

“It was exciting for a lot of people, including myself.”

 Jim’s eyes snap back to Paris. He clears his throat thickly as the memory fades to the back of his mind, but Paris chooses to ignore it.

“But I was also scared,” she continues instead, and he can't help but look at her curiously. “It felt like the whole world was against me. My second mission was a first contact—very routine, you understand. But I made a bad call, and it cost the lives of every crew member in the landing party except for my own. I woke up in the med bay three days later with half of my leg missing.”

Jim stares at her, stunned.

“I have never felt more… _unworthy_ of my chair than I did when I signed those condolence letters.” Paris looks sorrowful. “It was _my_ mistake. I felt guilty that I should've lived at the cost of my crew, and I thought I owed it to them to resign my commission. Do you know who talked me out of it?”

He shakes his head dumbly, and Paris shoots him a sad smile.

“Chris Pike.”

A lump lodges itself in Jim’s throat, and he ducks his head, sucking unsteady breaths through his nose.

“The thing is, Kirk,” she says gently as he focuses on not crying, “danger is part of the job description. There are always going to be sacrifices to be made, and the weight of those decisions is always going to be on your shoulders. Everyone doubts themselves—especially captains.”

His head snaps up just as quickly, hope rising unbidden in his chest, and Paris looks at him almost fondly.

“The admiralty has decided to officially reinstate your command, once refit is complete. Until then, you're free to pursue any other openings Starfleet has to offer you. Commander Spock has returned to the Academy to teach. You might find fulfillment in that direction, in the meantime.”

_He’s still a captain._

“But _why?”_ he blurts weakly. Paris raises a single eyebrow and he hastily says, “I mean, thank you, ma'am.”

Paris slides open a drawer, pulling out an old fashioned photograph that's yellowing around the edges and handing it to him across the desk.

It's Pike, but not as Jim ever knew him. He's grinning broadly, dressed in cadet reds with his arm slung over a pretty young woman with dark hair. _And Paris_ , he realizes. It's strange seeing him so young, without a hint of the authority that Jim had come to respect in him, and a twinge of regret shoots through him as he realizes he never really knew the man at all.

“Pike believed in you, Kirk. I want to give you the same chance he gave me.”

Even if Pike knew him better than he would’ve liked.

“As far as the case against you goes,” Paris is saying, and he tears himself away from the photo, “all charges have been dropped. Starfleet’s official statement is that Marcus and the fugitive known as John Harrison were acting alone, and the Enterprise was responsible only for apprehending them. The rest, of course, is classified. The press will be notified in the morning, but I wanted you to hear the news straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

Jim finds himself nodding, and he swallows, unsure of what to say.

“I know you’re wondering if you still deserve to be on that bridge,” Paris is leaning back in her chair, looking at him sharply, but not unkindly. He can’t help but feel like a kid in the principal’s office. “You’re the youngest captain Starfleet has ever had, which means people are always going to look for you to make a mistake. Believe me, Kirk—I know what that feels like. Drown out the voices who tell you you can’t, and listen to the one’s who believe that you _can_. Commander Spock was particularly vocal about appealing your case.”

The news warms something inside him before it’s extinguished by doubt.

“I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“Lucky for you,” Paris smiles wryly, “the Enterprise isn't either.”

She slides a PADD across the desk, and he takes it, nonplussed.

“There's planet, not far from New Vulcan, Class M—some surviving Vulcans took refuge there after the Nero Incident, and the Federation has since established a rehabilitation colony there.”

There’s an infographic on the screen, and he scrolls through it, looking at the photos of humans and aliens alike smiling with doctors and therapists, or standing in front of rows of little carbon-copy houses in overly cheerful staged candids.

“What about the local life?” he asks, skeptical. Paris shrugs.

“There was none.”

Jim’s brow furrows as he looks up from a picture of an Andorian in physical therapy.

“It wouldn’t be the first Class M planet Starfleet has encountered without sentient life,” Paris says, sensing his question. “Surveying teams cleared the planet as habitable before the colony ever began construction. It’s perfectly safe.”

 _Bucolic_ jumps out at him when he turns back to the PADD, and he raises an eyebrow, thinking of Iowa.

“You’ll see that the colony focuses on both mental and physical rehabilitation. Part of the treatment includes reintroduction to the work force, so you’ll likely find yourself assigned some sort of light labor—paid of course—once you’ve settled. Other Starfleet officers have found the experience quite rewarding.”

It’s not that he doesn’t believe her. He’s sure that plenty of individuals have found respite in this kind of thing, but—

“I’m not sure if this is for me,” Jim says apologetically, sliding the PADD back to her. She inclines her head as she places it back in her drawer.

“I understand, Kirk. Just something to consider.”

She stands, moving around the desk to the door, and Jim forces himself to his feet. His knees feel oddly weak as he follows behind her, stopping short as she waits at the door.

“Jim.” She pauses with her hand on the door handle, assessing his face closely. “The Enterprise leaves in a year. Whether or not you go with it is up to you.”

He almost wishes the decision was still up to the brass.

Jim inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I understand, ma’am.”

Paris looks at him with thinly veiled pity, and he’s not sure he wants to know what she thinks his choice will be, but she merely sighs and opens the door.

“Dismissed, Captain.”

He salutes her as he leaves, and when the door shuts behind him with a strange sense of finality, he’s left by himself in the lobby. Sulu is gone—not that Jim had expected him to wait, exactly—and Paris’s secretary doesn’t look up from his computer. He feels painfully alone.

The analog on the wall ticks loudly. Through the window, he spots the Academy’s science building on the corner of the plaza, and the decision is cinched in his head.

_Fuck distance._

* * *

Campus is sparse of students. The plaza is empty, with the exception of a few stray cadets scurrying off to various buildings around the square. It takes him a second to realize that class is probably in session, and he hesitates as he reaches the door to the science building. Spock is probably teaching.

 _Shit_.

Jim pulls his hat from his head, running his hand roughly through his hair. He feels stupid. What was he even thinking—interrupting Spock’s classes to go cry about his meeting with the commodore? Or about how he doesn’t have any friends?

_Good one, Kirk._

Shame burns the back of his neck. Christ. He just needs to go back home, wallow in his own misery, and maybe call Bones over a bottle of beer.

Perfect.

He tugs his hat back on low over his face, hoping his skin doesn’t look as red as it feels—and just barely manages to get out of the way before a cadet shoves open the door where he’s been loitering and bowls out of the building. He’s halfway to annoyed before he registers what the kid is actually saying.

“I just got out of office hours, I can be there in five—”

_Office hours._

He can wait in Spock’s office.

 _Right_ , he thinks, feeling foolish as he catches the door and heads into the lobby before he can convince himself to turn back. Jim takes a shaky breath. He’s already come all the way out here—there’s no point in turning back now.

It might be a weak argument, but he’ll be damned if weaker arguments haven’t gotten him out of tighter spots.

A directory hangs on the wall, and he gives it a once over. The Office of Interplanetary Affairs is probably a decent place to start looking, and if he can’t find Spock himself he’s sure that someone might know where to find him—

“—the Kobayashi Maru is a thought experiment not unlike Foot’s Trolley Problem, or the Le-Matya Conundrum presented by Surak as an elementary exercise in cthia—”

His heart skips a beat. The doors to the building’s main lecture hall are propped open, and a familiar voice floats out into the corridor from somewhere within.

Okay. Spock is definitely teaching.

Before he can stop himself, he’s making his way toward the lecture hall. A student seated somewhere in the risers asks a question he can’t hear from the door, but Spock’s answer is clear enough.

“Theoretically one could argue that most belief systems, both religious and otherwise philosophical, strive for species-wide utilitarianism in some regard.”

It must be his Interspecies Ethics class, Jim realizes. It definitely doesn’t sound like Advanced Phonology. He tucks himself against the wall of the risers, unwilling to draw attention to himself, but moves forward enough that he can see Spock standing behind his podium.

He’s happy to see that Spock looks, well—like _Spock_. Healthy as a horse, severe, with the same old haircut and same old pointy ears. He’s dressed in the standard black all professors wear, but Jim doesn’t ever remember it looking so striking on any of his other instructors.

“Furthermore,” Spock continues, as Jim leans forward in interest, “diverse cultural values across species will manifest different forms of utility. While unethical by Federation standards, Klingons are honor bound to commit ritual suicide when no longer capable of serving the Empire. Such differences are often the at the root of conflict between distinct species.”

Fingers tap away on PADDs. There are no notes on the screen, and Jim can’t help but smirk. Ethics of Authority was the course requirement for the command track, and while he’s never exactly been one for philosophy, he’s almost disappointed he missed out on Spock’s class.

He wonders what the exams are like.

“Nevertheless,” Spock is saying, “one may find there are circumstances in which personal values must be sacrificed for the sake of ethics.”

“Could you provide an example?” A young woman pipes up from somewhere in the front row.

Spock raises an eyebrow delicately. “Can you not think of one?”

Jim turns a laugh into a cough before he can stop himself, and it’s like a homing beacon. Spock’s eyes snap to his face, vague irritation written across his features before they shift into something akin to stunned surprise.

Jim smiles sheepishly, and raises his hand in greeting. Spock’s face smooths just as quickly into something unreadable, and Jim’s smile falters.

“The Romulan debate, sir?”

The woman in the front row speaks up again.

Spock tears his eyes away from Jim, and looks back at his students.

“Precisely, Cadet.” His voice is almost hesitant, and his eyes flick back to Jim in the corner. “The Nero Incident has created an ethical dilemma that has forced the hands of both the Federation and the Romulan Empire. The knowledge of the imminent supernova and subsequent loss of nine billion innocent Romulan lives has made a peace treaty with the Federation a much more appealing alternative to war.”

“But that sort of logic implies war has an ethical code to begin with. Who gets to decide how much is too much? How do you choose which lives are worth saving?” she demands. Jim can’t help but like her.

The silence in the room is deafening, and Spock looks at her calculatingly. Jim’s knows that look—he’s been on the receiving end of it too many times to count.

Curiosity overrides his desire for privacy, and he leans around the corner, feeling his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

She’s Vulcan.

At least, she looks it, with the ears and the eyebrows. Her hair is brown and curly, instead of the smooth black cap he’s used to seeing on Spock. But her face is twisted into an expression of indignation, and he stares.

She’s… Romulan?

As far as Jim knows, Spock is the only Vulcan-Human hybrid in existence. But whoever this girl is, she clearly isn't entirely Vulcan.

Jim looks back to Spock, and his heart leaps to his throat when he finds a pair of brown eyes already staring back.

“A captain will often find,” he's saying, and his eyes are locked on Jim’s, looking as pained as Jim has ever seen them, “that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”

Jim couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“Dismissed.”

Confusion flits across his face before he realizes Spock is speaking to his students, and not him. Zippers and chatter suddenly echo throughout the room as the class filters out. He keeps his head down as cadets trickle through the door in twos and threes, and no one gives him a second glance. That's the nice thing about catching Spock in lecture, he supposes: there's nothing weird about waiting to speak with the professor after class.

It feels like it takes forever before the room clears out, with the exception of the not-Vulcan from the front row. She's standing across the podium from Spock, and they're talking in low tones Jim can't make out. It might not even be Standard.

He slowly meanders toward them, and Spock glances his way. He nods once to the cadet, a clear dismissal, and she picks up her bag and leaves, ignoring Jim as she heads for the exit.

The door clicks shut and it’s just the two of them, and Jim isn’t sure what to do. He stuffs his hands in his pockets as Spock walks toward him, and his heart is pounding in his chest but he doesn’t know why.

“ _Jim_.”

Spock is _right there_ and Jim melts.

“Wanna get lunch?”

Spock’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

* * *

 Jim isn’t sure where they’re going.

He also finds he doesn’t really care.

They fall into step easily, and if it weren’t for the breeze blowing across his face, Jim could easily shut his eyes and pretend he was on board the Enterprise with Spock at his shoulder.

It’s a nice thought. He’s feared that perhaps Spock was only his friend by circumstance, through sheer proximity, but right now the back of his hand brushes Spock’s with every step they take and he makes no move to shift away.

He’s half tempted to reach out and grab it, just to see what Spock would do.

“That cadet was something else, Spock,” he says, grasping for something to fill the silence. He doesn’t want to talk about his meeting out here, but he’s also not exactly keen on voicing the direction his thoughts just took and doesn’t trust himself _not_ to grab Spock’s hand if left in the quiet of his own head. Spock raises an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” he says. “Cadet Saavik has become somewhat of a protege of mine. I find her opinions quite refreshing.”

“Where is she from?” Jim asks curiously. Their hands brush again and his heart jumps into his throat before he swallows it back down. “She looked Vulcan enough, but… I don't know, she didn’t really _act_ it, did she?”

“She is Vulcan,” Spock says matter of factly, and Jim looks at him in confusion. “She is also Romulan.”

Jim all but stops in astonishment. “Wait a minute. How does that—”

“Her father is Vulcan. Her mother is Romulan,” Spock interrupts him with a withering look. A sheepish grin spreads across Jim’s face as he returns to Spock’s side, and they both resume their path.

“So how’d she make her way to Starfleet?” Jim asks curiously. A cadet approaching from the opposite direction forces Jim closer to Spock’s side, and Jim unthinkingly puts a hand on Spock’s back, hardly realizing what he’s done until the warmth of Spock’s body starts seeping into his skin and he reluctantly pulls it away. Spock doesn’t react either way.

“As I understand it, her experiences on Vulcan as a child were quite polarizing,” he says. “She believed Starfleet Academy would provide an appropriate environment to express her rather unique ideologies. I find it quite… facile to identify with the struggles she has confided in me as to facing.”

“Struggles?” Jim parrots, incredulous. “C’mon, Spock, I don't buy that for a second. Everyone loves you.  Even Bones, even if he pretends he doesn’t.” He grins, nudging Spock's side with his elbow, and receives a dry look in return.

“Quite the contrary, Captain.”

The plaza is buzzing with students migrating to their next classes, but Spock leads them down a side street that Jim knows heads downtown. He doesn't say anything else, and Jim stares at the sidewalk uncomfortably and wonders if he's managed to stick his foot in his mouth.

“On my home planet,” Spock says finally, and Jim’s head whips back up to look at him, “I was considered too human to be Vulcan. On Earth I was too Vulcan to be human. In both circumstances I found myself quite isolated.”

Spock is staring steadfastly ahead, and Jim feels terrible.

“She is Romulan, Jim,” Spock says quietly. “Illogically so, I have found that many individuals are predisposed to blame the actions of a few on an entire race. In my personal experience, stereotypes are often quite ostracizing.”

“Vulcans are supposed to be emotionless—they thought they couldn't hurt you,” Jim says softly. Spock nods once.

“Precisely,” he admits simply. “While I certainly hoped humans would prove more tolerant than my peers on Vulcan, I was not unfamiliar with the consequences of xenophobia.”

“Wow,” Jim manages, swallowing. They're on a street corner somewhere in Inner Richmond, and no one gives them a second look. “Spock, I had no idea.”

Spock looks at him peculiarly. “How could you have? We were not acquainted when I attended the Academy.”

Jim’s heart breaks a little bit.

“No, I know—it's the principle of it.”

“I see.”

Spock’s brow is furrowed and Jim isn't sure he does. They stop outside of a little place called Bombay Kitchen, and Spock pauses with his hand on the door.

“I must confess,” Spock looks at him sideways, a glint of humor sparking in his eyes, “when I first became aware of you in my lecture, I experienced regret that I never had you as a student in my class.”

Jim barks a laugh, delighted, as Spock pulls open the door and they’re greeted by the warm smell of cloves and coriander.

“I dunno, Spock, I think you would've regretted it more if I _was_ in your class,” he teases.

“Perhaps,” Spock agrees solemnly, and Jim laughs again as a host guides them to a corner table. The place smells divine. It’s warm and quiet, and Jim wonders with a pang of jealousy how often Spock had come here with others that weren’t him.

“Indian food, huh?” Jim asks as they take their seats, pushing the thought from his head. He flips through the menu absently as their host pours glasses of water.

“Vulcan cuisine is quite bland, by human standards,” Spock explains, and Jim looks up in interest. “My father spared no expense importing spices from Earth for my mother, and I acquired a taste for some of the more flavorful dishes she prepared in my youth.”

All the jealousy saps from his body almost instantly.

“You must really miss her.” His knee bumps Spock's under the table, but Spock doesn't shift away.

“Everyday,” Spock agrees softly.

They peruse their menus in silence and give their orders to their waitress—Spock something vegetarian, and Jim something spicy—and Jim takes a gulp of his water. No point in beating around the bush.

“I, uh—I saw Sulu today,” he says hesitantly, trying to sound casual. “I ran into him in Commodore Paris’s office.”

Spock looks at him sharply. “Indeed, Captain?”

Jim swallows. “Yeah. She comm’d me for a meeting this morning—that’s why I’m in the monkey suit,” he gripes, tugging at his collar. The wool still feels too scratchy. “They’re giving me back the Enterprise, Spock. They officially declared me innocent.”

Spock’s expression turns pleased, and his knee presses against Jim’s a second time. It’s nice—in fact, Jim revels in it—but the weight of his confession feels oddly heavy. He feels _exhausted_.

“I am gratified to hear it,” Spock states simply, and despite everything Jim feels his ears grow warm.

“Thanks, Spock. That… That means a lot.” Jim laughs weakly. “I really thought they were gonna fire me.”

“It would have been an illogical decision on the admiralty’s part.” Spock says with conviction, but Jim shakes his head.

“When I saw Sulu… that cinched it, you know? I thought he was being disciplined for following my orders.” Jim takes another gulp of water. “Turns out they’re giving him the Saratoga.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as melancholy as it does, and he immediately feels guilty for begrudging Sulu the admiralty’s decision. Spock is looking at him with expression he can’t decipher, so he keeps talking.

“He said everyone else is doing okay, though.” Jim kicks himself in a moment of clarity. “Shit, Spock, I never even asked—how are _you_ doing?”

Spock looks at him curiously, and for once Jim doesn’t wish he knew what Spock was thinking. “I assure you, I am quite well.”

The ice cubes in his glass are suddenly fascinating, and Jim swallows thickly, swirling them around.

“That’s—that’s great, Spock.” He winces internally at the lack of sincerity in his voice.  It’s not that he doesn’t mean it, it’s just—

“How are you, Jim?”

There it is.

The waitress chooses then to return with two heaping plates of food, oblivious to the tense silence between them. Jim suddenly doesn’t feel much like eating anymore.

“Paris had this idea,” he says hesitantly once she leaves. Spock looks at him inquisitively, spooning a bite of some leafy curry to his mouth. “I guess there’s a new rehab colony, and she thinks it’d be good for me if I spent some time there before the refit’s complete. She said that some Vulcans stayed there, after Nero.”

The last part comes out like a question, and Spock sets down his spoon, wiping his mouth with his napkin before answering.

“She is correct. My father described it as quite idyllic,” he says before taking a sip of his water. “He said it helped him find peace.”

Jim nods detachedly, shoveling a bite of food into his mouth just so he doesn’t have to respond. He should’ve known the idea would probably have Spock’s wholehearted endorsement. But Spock doesn’t press him, and Jim stirs his rice tiredly.

“It’s just… I’m seeing Dr. Angelo, right? That's gotta count for something.”  He stabs indignantly at a piece of chicken. “It's only been a _month,_ Paris honestly can't expect this—me, _whatever_ —to go quickly.”

Spock is looking at him patiently, and Jim feels his frustration mount.

“I'd have to find a new doctor anyway, because there's a list of preapproved physicians on call to accompany patients off planet and she's not on it, and I-I’ve made _progress_ with Dr. Angelo. I think I have. Going to some rehab colony is just gonna set me back.”

He’s grasping at straws. There’s no good reason _not_ to go to the colony beyond his own insecurities and misgivings, and he realizes suddenly that’s probably exactly why he needs to go in the first place. The irony doesn’t escape him.

“What of Doctor McCoy?” Spock asks. “I have no doubt he would be willing to accompany you as both a residing physician and friend.”

The thing is, Jim _had_ thought of Bones. He had thought of Bones the second Paris had handed him the stupid PADD to begin with. And he knows Bones would come with him in a heartbeat, if he asked. But Bones has Jojo, and he knows he would never forgive himself for taking that away from him—even if Bones _would_.

“I can’t ask him to do that,” Jim says. “He has a little girl, Spock, I—I’m _nothing_ compared to that.”

“I see,” Spock says. He takes another bite, chews it thoughtfully and then says, “Perhaps I could accompany you.”

Jim almost chokes.

The tips of Spock’s ears tinge green, and Jim stares at him incredulously.

“Physically, Khan’s blood has rendered you perfectly healthy,” Spock explains, “and I am sufficiently adept at mind healing, therefore making me a logical choice to accompany you should you wish for someone more familiar as your chaperone.”

Hope swells glorious and warm in Jim’s chest before he reluctantly stamps it down. _Be realistic_ , he scolds himself. _It’s not Spock’s job to babysit me_.

“You don’t owe me anything, Spock,” Jim says finally, “least of all a year of your life. I can’t keep dragging you down with me.”

Spock looks at him nonplussed.

“I fail to understand why you believe you have been ‘dragging me down’,” he says. “I would not suggest accompanying you if I did not want to. I have found you to be an exemplary captain and friend.”

“But what if I don’t _deserve_ to be captain, Spock,” Jim interrupts desperately. A small part of him is glad the restaurant is empty. He can hear his own voice getting loud. “Maybe—I don’t know, maybe I’m _good_ at it sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I should have a ship.”

“Your logic is faulty,” Spock says firmly, taking another bite as though they were arguing about the weather. “I would not serve under any captain who did not deserve their chair. It has been a privilege acting as your executive officer.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m talking about— _you_ should be captain, Spock. Not wasting your career as someone’s first.”

“Jim,” Spock says firmly, setting down his fork. “You are emotionally compromised.” Jim looks at him, stunned. Their food sits forgotten on the table, and Jim doesn’t know what to say.

“I believe you are experiencing what is called survivor’s guilt,” Spock continues softly, “but I implore you to not assume responsibility for the actions of the two men who are, in point of fact, the ones at fault for the events of a month ago.”

It's a fact Jim can recognize objectively—Dr. Angelo had broached the idea during their first session. But _logically_ , Jim can’t escape the fact that it was his own grief for Pike that brought them to Qo’noS.

_What would you have done?_

_I wouldn’t have risked my first officer’s life in the first place._

And this time, he managed to risk his entire crew. And he can’t blame Marcus or Khan for that.

“As for myself,” Spock says pointedly, and Jim looks up from the orange stain he had been staring at on the tablecloth, “I have found I have no desire to be elsewhere. Paris offered me captaincy of the Saratoga six days ago.”

Jim looks up at him in surprise.

“I am content with my position at the academy,” Spock assures, “and I am gratified to hear the Saratoga will have such a fine captain as I am sure Lieutenant Sulu will prove to be. Kaiidth, Jim. What is, is. Accompanying you off planet would come at no personal expense.”

Doubt flutters uncomfortably in his stomach, and he pokes at his food, hoping the nausea he feels doesn't get the best of him. How can Spock be so willing to commit a whole year of his life to him? To _only_ him?

“This…” he hardly knows what to say. “This is something else, Spock.”

“It is merely something to consider,” Spock replies mildly, unknowingly echoing Paris’s words from earlier that morning. Jim can only stare. “I trust you will choose what is right for your wellbeing.”

* * *

They don’t linger in the restaurant. Spock has another lecture to teach, though for reasons Jim can’t quite fathom, he’s chosen to see Jim home first.

“Are you sure you’ll make it back in time?” Jim asks doubtfully as they walk back out into the cool afternoon air. It’s starting to get foggy.

“Affirmative, Jim,” Spock assures, tugging his black tunic straight. “Assuming a walking speed of one point eight meters per second—”

“Alright, okay, I believe you,” Jim interrupts, fond exasperation bubbling warm in his chest.

The rest of their stroll is spent in silence, and Jim stares resentfully at the box in his hands, remembering the warmth of Spock’s knuckles on his skin—far warmer than the chilly air around them. They weren’t exceptionally far from his apartment, and when he sees his stoop in the distance, same as he left it, something heavy settles onto his shoulders.

“It was good seeing you, Spock,” he manages as they slow to a stop in front of the steps.

“Likewise, Jim.” Spock hesitates, and Jim’s eyebrows creep toward his hairline. “If you are not averse to the idea,” he says finally, “perhaps we could arrange a similar engagement at a time more convenient to our schedules.”

“You wanna get lunch again sometime?” Jim translates incredulously.

“I believe that is what I just said,” Spock says. He almost looks nervous, and Jim feels a smile creep across his face before he can help it.

“Yeah, Spock, of course. Whenever is best for you, okay?”

Spock nods once, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Please keep me informed of your decision regarding the rehabilitation colony,” he asks, and Jim feels the grin start to slip from his face.

“You got it,” he says tightly, forcing his smile to remain.

Spock nods again. “Good afternoon, Jim,” he says softly before turning away, heading back to campus at what Jim can only assume is exactly one point eight meters per second. This time the smile stays naturally, and he shakes his head before pressing his thumb to the lock on his front door.

He's only been gone a few hours, but his apartment feels infinitely more drab than it had that morning.

He sighs heavily, tossing the box of curry into the refrigerator and taking absent notice of the lack of other contents. His fingers find the buttons at his throat and a moment later his jacket is tossed over the back of a kitchen chair, his belt not far behind.

The PADD he hasn’t touched in days is sitting on his coffee table, and he picks it up, flopping back onto his couch and opening his inbox.

At the top of his inbox is a message from Paris.

Well. A message from the “Office of Commodore M. Paris,” which, as he scans its generic contents, he supposes means it was sent by the breezy secretary at the front desk. It’s nothing but an impersonal thank you for meeting, a template he recognizes as one he’s sent himself several times aboard the Enterprise.  The only difference is, at the bottom, the same infographic Paris had offered him before is attached innocuously beneath the signature.

He taps it open, looking at the same cheery pictures from earlier and scrolling through the enthusiastic testimonials that make his stomach churn with something akin to guilt. He’s sure it’s a perfectly nice place. Commodore Paris surely wouldn’t have suggested it if she didn’t believe it would help—and neither would Spock.

Dr. Angelo would have a field day with him right now, he thinks mildly. Sabotaging his own recovery. And to what end? Not four hours ago he was terrified of losing his job, and now he’s afraid of getting it back?

No wonder Paris wants to send him to the loony planet.

He closes out of the pamphlet and is calling Bones before he’s even aware he's doing it. The call rings twice before Jim is looking at Bones’ frowning face.

“What’s the matter?” Bones asks brusquely.

“Nothing, I’m fine.” Bones immediately looks skeptical, and Jim’s smile only grows. “Seriously, Bones. Scout’s honor.”

Bones rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re as much of a scout as I am a Vulcan.” His face softens into concern. “Seriously, Jimbo, how’re you doing?”

“Is that Uncle Jim?”

A little blonde head pops into the screen, and Jim’s answering smile is mirrored by one slightly more toothless, but far more beatific.

“That depends,” Jim says, putting on his most serious captain’s face. “Is that my Jojo?”

“Yes, sir,” she confirms, saluting, and Jim laughs.

“At ease,” he plays along, and she climbs into Bones’s lap, who smacks a kiss into her hair. “How are you, kiddo?”

“Good,” she says, fiddling with a stuffed horse. “Did you know my birthday is in ten days?”

Jim feigns surprise. “ _Ten days?_ That can't be right.”

“Uh-huh,” Jojo confirms, brushing the horse’s mane. “It's my _golden_ birthday,” she emphasizes, and Jim bites back a smile. “I'm turning seven on the seventh.”

“Well, I guess that means it's doubly important,” Jim agrees, and Jojo nods gravely, still looking at her toy. “I guess I should probably send _two_ presents, then.”

Jojo’s head snaps up so fast Jim feels dizzy just looking at her, and a wide smile spreads across her face as Bones rolls his eyes a second time.

“You're gonna spoil her rotten, Jim,” he complains, but there's not an ounce of bite to it.

“Like you don't?” Jim counters, but Bones just smirks. Jojo settles back into his chest contentedly, starting a braid in the fake hair.

“So how _are_ you doing, Jim?” he asks, and Jim sighs.

“I'm fine, Bones,” he answers, and it feels at least semi truthful. But Bones looks at him through narrow eyes.

“What about those nightmares?”

Jim’s heart lurches. “How did you—”

“Spock called me in a tizzy at three a.m.,” Bones explains, “and let me tell you, that was a nightmare in and of itself.” Jim swallows thickly. “Why didn't you tell me, Jim?”

Jim can hear the hurt beneath the layers of concern, and shame fizzles in his stomach.

“It didn't seem like a big deal,” he shrugs weakly. “I mean, they're nightmares, Bones, you can't exactly do much about them—”

“Jim, it sounds like PTSD,” Bones interrupts seriously, and Jim pauses. “Have you had any flashbacks? Panic attacks?”

Jim's hesitation is answer enough. Bones runs a hand through his hair, and Jim doesn't know what to say.

“What happened?” Bones asks finally, and Jim swallows again.

“There, uh, was this kid, on the shuttle today…” Jim begins. His eyes flicker to Jojo, still on Bones’s lap, but she doesn't pay them any mind, and the whole story spills out. He’s half expecting Bones to laugh at him, but it never comes. Instead, he sighs.

“Kids don't have any damn tact,” he gripes once Jim is finished.

“Do I have tact?” Jojo pipes up suddenly, and Bones wipes a tired hand down his face.

“Nope,” he sighs, and Jim chokes on a laugh despite himself. “Well, what did Paris have to say?”

Jim shakes his head. “She thinks a year in that new rehab colony is a good idea.”

“And you don't?” Bones raises an eyebrow, and Jim deflates.

“You think I should go.”

He's starting to think there's a conspiracy against him.

“Well, it sounds like a no brainer to me, Jim,” Bones says. “You need a physician, right?” Jim can sense his hesitation, and already knows what he's going to offer before he offers it. He sees Jojo pause in braiding, her little eyebrows crumpling together beneath her bangs. _Smart kid._

“I'll go with you if you want,” Bones says, and Jim smiles hollowly.  

“I know,” he says softly, and Bones nods, resolute. “But I, uh, actually have that covered.”

Bones’s surprise quickly morphs into suspicion.

“Who?” he demands, and Jim feels heat already starting to crawl up his neck.

“Spock offered at lunch,” he admits sheepishly, and Bones’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“The _hobgoblin?”_ He says, disbelief coloring his voice. “No way. The bastard’s not even a _doctor_ , Jim, what the hell is he thinking?”

“He says he's practiced mind healing,” Jim argues, feeling oddly defensive. “I'm not _hurt_ , Bones, I—”

“Vulcan mind voodoo is the last damn thing you need,” Bones interrupts, shaking his head angrily. “ _Spock_. I ought to beam over there and give that halfwit a piece of my mind, because Khan clearly hit ‘im upside the head with the _stupid_ stick—”

“ _Bones.”_

 _“Jim_ ,” Bones retorts, and they're both quiet. “Listen,” he says finally. “Take some R&R. All that press can't be good for you. Being cooped up in your apartment…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Just think this _through_ , you hear me? Spock's a good guy, but he ain't no doctor.”

“I trust him, Bones,” Jim says quietly. “He was _there_ , you know?”

Bones sighs, sagging back into his chair. He tucks his chin over Jojo’s head. “You know I do.”

Jim smiles sadly. “I should go.”

Bones’s brow furrows. “Now wait just a minute—”

“Jojo,” Jim interrupts, and she looks up from her horse expectantly, “take good care of your old man for me, alright?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” she agrees, blowing a kiss, and Jim smiles.

“I’ll talk to you later, kiddo.”

Bones looks disgruntled. “This isn’t over, Jim, I mean it.”

Jim chuckles. “Is it ever?”

* * *

That night, Jim dreams.

It’s the warp core. It always is.

But this time it’s different.

He’s wearing red— _strange_ —and he approaches the glass from the outside. A familiar cap of black hair rests against the glass from within.

It’s Spock.

His skin oozes green blood, and his eyes are clouded over, and horror rises up Jim’s throat as he realizes—

Spock is dying.

And he can’t save him.

It feels more like a memory than a dream.

They’ve traded places, but Jim still can’t breathe, and he claws for consciousness that won’t come as Spock rests a familiar salute against the glass, rasping his last words—

_You are my friend._

_—_ and Jim presses his palm to the glass, and the dream suddenly shifts, and Spock is looking down at him in horror, and that’s his _own_ hand that’s blistering now. He’s dying for the hundredth time, but Spock is safe and relief prickles at his eyes as his vision goes black moments before he wakes up, gasping for breath.

* * *

He’s not sure how long he lays there before he reaches for his comm.

He counts the rings—four—before Spock answers.

“Jim.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Does your offer still stand?”

Spock pauses. Jim holds his breath, and then—

“Of course, Jim.”

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.” 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was a long wait.
> 
> Hi, readers! From the very bottom of my heart, I sincerely apologize for the delay. My laptop decided to have a mid-life crisis where it just straight up _died_ (here's hoping that's not how mine goes), and so I spent several weeks relying on a ten year old desktop while I shopped around for a new computer. But I got a really great Cyber-Monday deal and managed not to go broke, so here's to quicker updates in the future!

Jim’s morning starts much like the one previous.

He wakes up—not particularly well-rested—puts on his dress uniform and shoves his comm in his pocket, and walks out his front door into the cool morning air.

The only difference is this time, Spock is waiting for him on the sidewalk.

It's a decidedly nice change, all things considered.

“Good morning, Jim.” Spock is looking at him closely as he steps onto the sidewalk, a single wrinkle in the middle of his brow belying his otherwise well-concealed concern. It doesn’t look like pity— not like the looks he’s gotten from Paris, Sulu—even Bones despite all his good intentions. He supposes pity would be illogical. That wrinkle is all he’s going to get, he realizes, oddly grateful, and the smile Jim gives him in return doesn’t quite feel forced.

“Hey, Spock.”

“Would you prefer to wait for the shuttle?”

Jim blinks. It’s not exactly the question he was expecting, but he supposes “how are you?” would be more than a little redundant at this point, and the automatic “fine” that he was about to recite dies on his lips.

“No,” he says instead, thinking of the shuttle from the day before. “No, walking is fine.”

Spock nods once and they fall into step easily as they head toward campus, their shoes clicking mutedly against the pavement. A shuttle passes them a block from Jim’s apartment, slow enough that Jim can make out a childish face pressed to the glass. It’s probably not the same boy, but Jim shivers a little anyway. Probably best to just avoid another situation like that altogether.

Except he can't help but imagine the kid— _Gray—_ asking Spock the same creepy questions, and a snort involuntarily escapes his nose.

Spock looks at him curiously, and he grins. “Sorry. Sneeze.”

The lie is blatantly transparent, but Spock doesn’t press. Instead he says, “I am gratified that you have decided to heed Paris’s advice.” He sounds pleased.

Jim shrugs noncommittally. “It’s probably the right thing to do.”

It _definitely_ is, but the niggling feeling of doubt in the back of his head refuses to relent. Spock looks at him solemnly.

“I acknowledge that it must have been a difficult decision to make.”

Jim’s lips twist wryly at the words. “I didn't think I'd need it,” he admits, shrugging. “I dunno. It felt like a bad idea.”

He can’t imagine what Spock must be thinking right now—it _felt_ like a bad idea. God. He’s not exactly sure how to explain that one without sounding like a blithering idiot—and to a Vulcan, aside. Bones would have his ass by now, but Spock shakes his head.

“What is necessary is never unwise,” he says sagely, and Jim raises his eyebrows with a quirk of his lips.

“Words of wisdom, Mr. Spock?”

He can’t help but wonder at Spock’s gentle encouragement. Optimistically, it’s a side of Spock that Jim privately thought was going to take a hundred and fifty more years to mature, considering what he knows about the _other_ Spock—certainly not within the limits of their current working relationship. Friendship. Whatever this is, exactly.

Jim looks at Spock closely. He’s wearing his dress uniform today, and it’s impeccably creased where Jim’s is slightly frumpy from the day before. He must not have class. It’s no less flattering than his blacks, and Jim privately thinks he prefers the way Spock’s eyes stand out against the grey.

“Words from my father,” Spock corrects, and Jim realizes Spock has been watching him, too. “Said to me at a time it was quite necessary to hear them.”

“Does he know you're coming with me yet?” Jim asks curiously. “Your dad, I mean.”

“Negative, Jim,” Spock answers. There’s a piece of lint on the shoulder of his jacket, and Jim’s lips twitch upward at the tiny imperfection. “It was my intention to inform him after our meeting with Paris. There is no purpose in preemptively contacting him only to lack the appropriate details as to what our itinerary entails.”

Jim nods silently, swallowing down the reminder of where they’re headed: To Paris’s office—again—like a dog with his tail between his legs. She’s the only person he really _has_ to inform of his decision, aside from Bones. Maybe Sulu, he thinks, and the rest of the bridge crew—

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

“Shit, Spock,” he hisses, grabbing Spock’s arm, and they both stop. “What about _Uhura?_ ”

Spock looks almost guilty, and Jim shoves his hand roughly through his hair, furious at himself for his oversight. Because honestly, what the hell is Spock even _thinking_ , offering to leave with him? To leave Uhura behind? He has half a mind to kick Spock’s ass for being an absolute jerk of a boyfriend, while the other half just wants to crawl back into bed and forget any of this ever happened. _Jesus H. Christ._

“I apologize for not informing you sooner,” Spock says, and Jim can only stare incredulously. “I am aware humans often confide the burdens of ‘break ups’ with one another as a mark of friendship; however, I did not want to unduly burden you during your recovery with the extraneous details of my personal life.”

The words sound foreign on Spock’s lips and Jim’s heart skips a beat in his chest.

“You… you broke up?” Cautious relief creeps through his body.

“Indeed, Jim,” Spock replies. “It was a mutual decision; we terminated our relationship before you were released from the hospital.” He hesitates, and Jim’s mind whirls as he continues. “Nyota was... concerned we were not emotionally compatible. She believed we might find more suitable partners elsewhere.”

Spock isn’t looking at him, and Jim can hardly believe what’s in front of his own eyes. Spock is starting to _ramble_.

“She has insisted we remain in contact as friends,” he continues. “Though she has informed me this is not the norm, I can assure you it will not impact our performance on the bridge, and while I cannot speak for the lieutenant herself, my personal efficiency rating has remained steady at ninety eight point eight percent in spite of the recent termination of our romantic relationship.”

Jim’s eyebrows are somewhere near his hairline. “Of course I'm not worried about that, Spock, Jesus,” he says, finally finding his voice. He hardly has any idea what to say. “Are… are you doing okay?”

He settles for the slightly awkward question as they start walking again, and Jim can almost swear that when Spock’s hand grazes his, it’s not an accident.

Spock’s lips twitch at the corners. “I find that I am quite… fine.”

* * *

Headquarters doesn't seem quite as foreboding as it had the day before. There are a million other places Jim thinks he would probably rather be, but the ride up the lift feels less like a death sentence now that his entire career isn’t on the line, and with Spock resolutely at his side.

The doors slide open and there’s no one else present—aside from the secretary who for all the world looks like he hasn’t moved a muscle since yesterday, sitting at the reception desk and only briefly looking up from his PADD at their arrival.

“I’ll let Commodore Paris know you’re here,” he says coolly without prompting, eyes never leaving the screen. Jim’s brow furrows.

“You called ahead?” he asks Spock.

Spock raises an eyebrow and looks back at the disinterested secretary. “Negative, Jim.”

The secretary isn’t forthcoming with any information, and Jim shrugs helplessly before nodding toward the small cluster of chairs on the opposite wall. He sinks into one of them tiredly, slouching until the back of his head rests against the wall, and Spock takes the seat beside him, ramrod straight and still as marble.

Jim shuts his eyes and sighs, wondering if it’s too late to back out now. He supposes he appreciates what Spock is doing—probably more than he’s willing to admit right now—but he’s damned if he has any idea what exactly Spock’s motivations are. Maybe gathering evidence that his captain is wholly unfit for duty.

Wouldn’t that be rich. He can imagine the hearing: Petition to remove James T. Kirk from command on grounds of emotional instability. And who would argue with a Vulcan on matters of emotional stability?

Though, if that were the case, Jim thinks, he’s going pretty far out of his way. And Spock _had_ called Jim his friend—said that it’s _been a privilege acting as his executive officer_. Maybe Spock _is_ doing it out of the goodness of his own heart, though he can imagine Bones’s snort at the idea, and—

“Are you quite well, Captain?”

_Captain_. Not Jim. He opens an eye and finds Spock looking down at him concernedly.

“Peachy,” he deadpans, and Spock looks at him blankly. Jim huffs a laugh. “M’fine, honestly. Just tired.”

The answer seems to appease him, and Jim wonders again at his motivations. The question swirls around his head, and he sits up straight in his chair.

“Hey, Spock—”

“Captain. Commander.”

Jim has to commend Paris for her timing.

They both stand and Jim sighs resignedly. Spock shoots him a questioning look as they follow Paris into her office, but Jim shakes his head.

“Never mind,” he says quietly as Paris shuts the doors behind them. She rounds her desk and they stand at attention until she waves them off.

“At ease, gentlemen,” she says, taking a seat, and they follow suit, glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes. “What can I do for you?”

She's watching them with unabashed scrutiny, and Jim has no doubt she already knows exactly why they're there.

“I’d like to submit for extended convalescent leave, ma'am,” he says bluntly, simultaneously cursing himself for how meek it manages to sound. “I've decided to go to the rehabilitation colony.”

Paris gives them a long look over the desk, her eyes flicking back and forth between him and Spock, before she leans back in her chair.

“I wasn't aware convincing you meant convincing the commander as well,” she says finally, and Jim can hear the unspoken question in her words. He looks at Spock, who's looking at Paris, affronted.

“I am a logical choice to accompany Captain Kirk,” he says shortly, and Paris raises an eyebrow. “I am familiar with the details of both his mental and physical condition, and as a native of Vulcan, I am sufficiently trained in the practice of mind healing so as to be a suitable alternative to a physician who would be otherwise unfamiliar with the captain’s circumstances.”

Lesser beings have crumbled under the caustic look Spock is sending her way, but Paris only looks amused, and Jim hardly knows how to interpret it.

“Quite logical, of course,” she concedes, and Spock’s face relaxes minutely. Jim watches the scene before him with detached fascination. “But what of your own responsibilities, Commander?”

“I wish to resign my teaching post, effective immediately,” he replies smoothly. “I believe you would find Ensigns Rawlins and Tsaia satisfactory replacements to take over my classes while I am off-planet. Their respective performances as my teaching assistants have been admirable.” He tilts his head slightly. “My only other responsibility is to the Enterprise, which I would rejoin with the captain upon completion of the refit.”

Paris is silent, still looking at Spock with that slight quirk of her lips that Jim isn't sure how to interpret.

“And you, Captain Kirk?” she says, her eyes lingering on Spock before she meets his gaze. “You believe you'll benefit from Commander Spock’s guidance?”

It's one hell of a loaded question, and he doesn’t have to imagine the skepticism coloring Paris’s voice. He sees Spock stiffen almost imperceptibly in the other chair. _Damned if you do, damned if you don’t_ , he imagines Bones drawling, but he feels himself nodding before he can even think about it.

Between Paris and Spock, there’s no choice to think about.

“I believe so, ma'am.”

He manages to sound more confident than he feels—not that it feels _untrue_. If Paris is surprised by his answer she doesn't show it—and for that matter, neither does Spock. Instead, she pulls her PADD from her desk, plucking a stylus from the drawer and scrawling a loopy signature across the bottom of the screen before passing it to Jim. It's official approval for leave. He takes a breath and scribbles his name at the bottom before passing it to Spock.

“I’ll put you both on the roster for the Yorkshire.” Jim’s eyebrows creep upward. He had expected more resistance. He watches as she takes the PADD from Spock after he too signs his name. “It leaves in a week—it’s the last cargo ship heading to the colony before it’s officially classified self-sufficient.”

She pauses, filling out and sending off another form on her PADD.

“When you arrive,” she continues, typing away, “you’ll fill out the necessary paperwork for temporary residency, and when the Enterprise rendezvouses in a year, you’ll go on board as captain.”

Jim nods almost dazedly. A _week_. None of this feels real.

“I’ll forward your boarding passes to your personal devices by the end of the day,” she’s saying, voice light. “I am aware you’ll be cutting it close, but I trust you’ll manage to make any other necessary arrangements before your departure.”

“May I make an inquiry, Commodore?” Spock asks, and Jim trusts him to ask all the questions he probably should himself. Paris gestures for him to continue. “Why is it necessary to make such an abrupt departure?”

Paris crosses her hands on her desk.

“Mostly because if you fail to board the Yorkshire, there are no other ships heading for that sector for the next six months,” she says. Jim can see Spock raise an eyebrow from the corner of his eye. “You recall I said the colony is nearly self-sufficient,” she explains. “At this point it’s only capable of sustaining about ten thousand colonists at a time. I made special arrangements with the governor to reserve the captain a place before the ports were officially closed, so to speak.”

“I do not understand,” Spock says, his eyes narrowing. “You spoke with the captain only yesterday.”

“I did,” Paris admits, and Spock opens his mouth to argue, but she stops him with a hand. “I made these arrangements weeks ago.”

“You knew I’d change my mind?” Jim speaks up suddenly. Paris and Spock both look at him at the same time, as if they had forgotten he was there. _Great_.

“I knew you had friends on your side who might change it for you,” Paris corrects gently, her face schooled into something more neutral than the mild surprise that had colored it moments before. Jim shakes his head, at a loss.

“Why wait so long?”

Paris at least has the grace to look regretful. “Whether or not you lost your captaincy was not up to me, Kirk,” she reminds him. “No matter what the outcome of your case, I wanted you to be able to recover fully from whatever had been thrown your way—whether that meant Harrison or Komack.”

He can’t fault her logic, even if it annoys him.

“Do you have any other questions?” she asks earnestly, and Jim shakes his head.

“No, ma’am,” he says, and she inclines her head before standing, apparently finished. The entire meeting lasted less than ten minutes, Jim realizes suddenly. They follow suit, and Paris brushes off the front of her jacket before rounding to the door.

“Jim,” she says as she pulls it open with an almost strange sense of finality, Jim thinks, and he pauses with Spock at his side. “Chris would be proud of you.”

He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat and nods tightly.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he manages as Paris smiles at him fondly.

“Good luck, gentlemen. I’ll see you in a year.” She closes the door behind them, and they head to the elevator without a word of farewell from her indifferent secretary. It all feels like a dream. Their ride down to the ground floor is spent in companionable silence, and when they finally walk out the front doors, Jim huffs a disbelieving laugh and tosses an arm around Spock’s shoulders, just because he can.

“Jim?”

That's it, then. He's officially going to the rehab colony. It feels less damning than he expected it to. There were no paradigm shifts, no sudden bouts of intense determination or soul crushing despair. It just _is_.

He's going to the rehab colony. Fact. Kaiidth.

They’re meandering toward campus’s main square, Jim notes absently. Not that he has any particular destination in mind—it’s hard to grasp that for the next year of his life, he’s not going to have anywhere he needs to be: No meetings to arrange or appointments to keep... For the next year of his life, he has one, single destination. It’s an odd feeling.

“Didn’t think it would be that easy,” he says eventually, drumming his fingers against the top of Spock’s arm. It’s a rare sunny day, and he tilts his head back, letting the sun wash over his face. Spock hesitates to answer, and Jim waits patiently.

“I confess I agree,” Spock admits finally, and Jim chuckles.

“Why, because you’re _not_ actually a doctor?” he can't help but tease, and Spock steps out from under his arm, lips pursed as he turns to look Jim in the eye.

“Jim,” he says somewhat urgently, looking troubled, “You must understand it is not my intention to undermine your recovery—”

“Whoa, hey,” Jim interrupts with a wave of his hand, sensing where Spock is heading. “I trust you, okay?” He laughs helplessly. They've stopped in the middle of the plaza. “I mean, why would I agree to this in the first place if I thought it was going to turn into some sort of shit show?”

“I cannot be sure,” Spock says slowly, visibly relaxing. “Humans _are_ illogical.” Jim stares in disbelief before a grin spreads across his face.

“Was that a joke?” he asks, thrilled. Spock raises an eyebrow condescendingly, but his eyes are glinting, crinkling subtly at the corners.

“It was a mere statement of fact,” he replies without missing a beat. “However, if you find humor in your own illogical behavior, it is your prerogative to do so.”

“I don’t think there’s a damn thing about this that isn’t illogical, Spock,” Jim chuckles dryly. “I came back from the _dead_.”

He means it light-heartedly—as light-hearted as it can be, he supposes—but winces internally at how morbid it sounds out loud. They’ve started walking again, and this time Jim follows Spock’s lead.

“A fact for which I will always be grateful,” Spock states simply as they stroll toward the science building. Jim ducks his head, fighting the smile that threatens to take over his features.

“Yeah?” he says finally, looking up to find Spock watching him with softened features. “I bet Komack would disagree.”

Spock doesn’t answer, and they weave through the throngs of students milling their way across the sidewalks.

“Jim,” he says instead when the reach the doors of the science building. “What did you mean to say before we spoke with Paris?”

The lobby is almost uncomfortably cool, and they shuffle off to the side after entering, out of the way of the cadets moving in and out of the building.

“Don't worry about it,” Jim says, keeping his voice low. Some of the cadets are looking curiously in their direction. “It doesn't matter.”

And he supposes it doesn't anymore. Whatever Spock's reasoning for joining him on his jaunt to rehab, Jim supposes he's demonstrated his commitment well enough that at this point it would probably be rude to hound the guy for answers. He can practically see Bones applauding his uncharacteristic show of restraint.

“Hey, uh, do you have time to get lunch?” he asks hopefully instead. Spock immediately looks remorseful and Jim feels his heart sink.

“Negative, Jim,” he says. “It is necessary that I meet with my teaching assistants to finalize the curriculum for the rest of the semester.”

Jim forces a smile. “Nah, I understand,” he says—and he _does_ , even if he wishes it were different. “I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in a week anyway, right?”

Spock inclines his head. “I believe that will, indeed, be the case.”

Jim plucks the lint from Spock’s shoulder and flicks it onto the ground. “I’ll see ya around, Spock,” he says with a rueful smile. “Probably sooner rather than later.”

Spock’s lips quirk at the corners, and Jim can't help but smile in return.

“Take care, Jim.”

* * *

“You’re doing _what?_ ”

Jim almost instinctively flinches away from the sharp displeasure in Bones’s voice. If looks were hypos… Well.

He doesn't want to think about it.

“I’m going to the rehab colony with Spock,” he repeats sheepishly.

He knows exactly how the idea sounds, because he's tried not to think too hard about it himself. Bones pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a harsh sigh. It sounds tinny through the speaker of his PADD.

“I swear to god, Jim, if you come back from that damn colony with pointy ears and a bowl cut, I’m pretending I never knew you.”

“I don't think that's how mind healing works, Bones,” he says exasperatedly, leaning back into his sofa. “And hey, you were all for it before you found out about Spock,” he accuses. Bones’s face twists indignantly.

“That’s because it’s _Spock_. His heart’s a thumpin' gizzard, Jim! You don’t send a cat to bring the sheep home, and you don’t ask a _Vulcan_ to cure your nightmares.”

Jim peers into the screen, annoyed. “Seriously, Bones, what do you have against it?” Unease settles suddenly in his chest, and he tries to swallow it down. “I mean, what, did you find out it’s gonna drive me insane, or something?”

He can hear the reluctance in his own voice, and Bones shakes his head.

“That’s just it, Jim,” he says. “There’s _nothing_. I haven’t been able to find a damn thing. And that’s not for lack of trying,” he adds dryly, and Jim suddenly takes note of the shadows under his eyes, and the light scattering of fresh scruff poking from his jaw. A mixture of guilt and nervousness roils in his stomach, and he wipes at his mouth.

“I looked through every medical journal I could get my hands on,” Bones says. “But Vulcans are crazy private with anything pertaining to their own biology. It’s why Spock’s medical records are such a nightmare: His blood pressure is _sixty two over fourteen_. Hell if I know if that’s normal,” Bones takes a swig from a beer bottle he swipes from somewhere offscreen and sighs again. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Jim doesn't say anything and Bones looks at him imploringly.

“I don't think Spock would ever intentionally hurt you,” he says softly, “but we just don’t know how your brain chemistry will react to all his poking around.” He slouches back into his chair, twirling the bottle between his fingers.

“It can’t be that dangerous,” Jim manages finally, wishing suddenly for his own drink. “His mom was human.”

“And she didn’t have PTSD, let alone the blood of a genetically modified _despot_ swimming around in her veins,” Bones retorts. “Think about how _crazy_ this all sounds. Jim.”

“I do, Bones,” he replies without hesitation. “Everyday.”

Bones runs a hand through his hair, looking off to the side, and the silence is thick enough that Jim can hear his own blood rushing in his ears.

“Just _be careful_ ,” Bones says finally, and Jim’s gut churns at the note of desperation in his voice. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“I’m always careful,” he smiles, and Bones scoffs.

“Sure you are. And I’m a monkey’s uncle.” He takes another drink from his bottle and smirks, one eyebrow cocked mischievously below his messy flop of hair. “ _The T stands for Trouble—_ isn’t that what you told that show girl on Risa?”

Jim snorts. “That _never_ happened,” he replies, grinning. Bones rolls his eyes.

“Uh-huh, sure it didn’t. She didn’t steal your credit chip either, did she?”

“Nope. I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Well, I’m not surprised, Jim, that’s what happens six Cardassian sunrises in—”

“Hey, where’s Jojo?” Jim asks innocently, deflecting. His lips twitch as Bones’s face sours.

“School,” he snaps. “She’s not gonna save you this time, Jim-boy.”

“Worth a try,” Jim shrugs, and they both grin. He looks down at his lap as the smile slips from his face, and his brow crumples despondently.

“I’m gonna miss you, Bones,” he says, smiling sadly as he looks back up at the screen. Bones presses his lips together, his nostrils flaring as he takes a breath through his nose.

“You’d better not shut me out once you’re over there,” he says, his voice rough. “If it can't be me…”

Jim smiles fondly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Bones shakes his head, lips quirked, and checks an old-fashioned watch on his wrist.

“I have an appointment to make, Jim,” he sighs regretfully. “I hate to cut you short but….”

“Don't worry about it,” Jim says, and means it. “I guess I should probably start packing, right?”

Bones snorts. “Probably. A _week,_ ” he scoffs. “Don’t make any more stupid decisions while I’m gone.”

“Love you too, Bones,” Jim grins.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies gruffly, hanging up before Jim can say another word.

Jim chuckles, tossing his PADD onto the cushion next to him and stretching languidly before sighing to the empty room. He can see his empty suitcase through his bedroom door, waiting unassumingly on his mattress where he left it before he decided to call Bones instead.

He probably _should_ pack, he thinks as he extracts himself from the sofa and shuffles toward his room. But what does he need, aside from some clothes and a toothbrush? He doesn’t have too much in the way of civvies, he realizes as he peruses the contents of his closet. There are half a dozen yellow uniform shirts hanging neatly in a row, a few pairs of jeans, and a couple old tee shirts he’s had so long he can’t remember buying them. He still has his cadet reds—shoved into the very back of his closet—even if he’s not certain why he’s kept them.

The website had recommended a journal, he remembers. He supposes his PADD will work well enough for that, if he really needs it. He scans the contents of his room, looking for anything he might be able to toss into his bag prior to the last possible minute, and comes up short.

His apartment suddenly feels incredibly impersonal.

Clothes and a toothbrush. Not much packing he can actually _do_.

He sinks onto his bed, rubbing his face tiredly, and wonders that he ever thought of this place as home. Objectively speaking, maybe: four walls and a bed—what else does he really need?

His stomach grumbles.

_Food, apparently_ , he thinks humorlessly, and trudges toward his kitchen, pulling his leftovers from the fridge.

He wonders, as he waits for his food to heat, what Spock will choose to pack for the colony. He's never seen Spock in civvies, he realizes with a start, and can't decide if the mental image of Spock in jeans is hilarious or unsettlingly appealing. Vulcan attire is probably, well, _logical_. He thinks he remembers Sarek in grey, the last— _and only_ , he thinks, cringing at the memory—time he saw him. Lots of neutrals, he muses.

_Red_ , his mind supplies uselessly as the oven beeps, recalling his cadet uniform shoved into the recesses of his closet. _Spock would look good in red._ He shakes his head clear of the thought. Spock probably hasn't worn a single piece of flashy clothing his entire life. He scoops a bite of steaming curry into his mouth as he settles onto one of the stools lining his breakfast bar.

Jim wonders what Spock’s apartment is like. He visited Bones in Georgia once, at his family’s farm, and everything about the old house from its growling radiators to cranky ol’ Granny McCoy and her whisky glazed sweet potatoes had screamed of _Bones_.

He's never visited Spock before.

The Vulcan Embassy isn't far from the Academy. It's entirely possible Spock stays there while on Earth, given his father’s position. It's definitely a more logical choice than paying out the ass for rent in downtown San Francisco, even in spite of Starfleet’s housing allowance—not to mention it’s probably just flat out more comfortable.

Either way, he can’t imagine it would feel anymore like home to Spock than this apartment does for him. It’s a shitty thought, he recognizes, glumly taking another halfhearted bite of rice. Spock lost his entire planet. But Jim’s barely ever had a real home to begin with. He wonders mournfully if Spock has any keepsakes from Vulcan, and can’t decide what’s worse.

The Enterprise pops unbidden into his head as he swirls a piece of chicken through the puddle of sauce on his plate. He at least knew his neighbors on the Enterprise, he thinks dryly.

“ _Know your crew_ ,” Pike told him once. “ _They’re the best resource you have out there, and there might come a time that knowing Tim from Tennessee knows how to spit fish could save your life._ ”

Sometimes he misses Pike so much it hurts.

He sighs, appetite gone, and dumps the rest of the plate into the trash. He treads backs into his living room, picking up his PADD and absently opening the duty roster for the Enterprise.

_Status: Refit_

_Captain: Montgomery C. J. Scott_

His heart skips a beat before it settles into something only slightly less erratic in his chest. Right. Scotty’s acting captain, of course he is. It makes perfect sense: Chief engineer overseeing the refit while the captain and first take care of things at ground level.

Right.

He lets out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, shooting up a request for permission to board on a whim. He’s halfway to tossing the PADD back on the couch when it dings, and he pulls it back into his lap to find a message in his inbox.

Request approved.

Jim’s eyebrows shoot upward. That was easy.

His PADD makes it to his coffee table as he stands, already shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it haphazardly on the floor. He kicks off his dress shoes just inside his bedroom door, and yanks a yellow shirt off one of his hangers before stooping to dig his standard issue boots from the box at the bottom of his closet. They’re slightly stiffer than he remembers, until he realizes that they’re his backup pair. His others were irradiated, he realizes suddenly—and hopefully chucked into the sun, he thinks, shuddering.

When he looks in the mirror, he thinks he feels more comfortable in his slightly scratchy command gold than he has in weeks spent in threadbare, holey pajamas.

He fishes his comm from the pocket of his dress pants, crumpled in a wrinkly heap on the floor, and flips it open.

“Kirk to Enterprise.”

There’s a pause, and then—

“Enterprise here, Captain.”

He doesn’t recognize the voice that answers, but it doesn’t stop a smile from spreading slow and giddy across his face.

“One to beam up.”

“Aye aye, sir. Stand by for transport.”

Hardly a moment passes before the familiar, tingly feeling of the transporter beam encompasses his body, and then he’s standing in the transporter room of his ship, stepping off the platform onto hard tritanium floors. He sucks in a deep breath, and wonders that he could ever find the dry, tasteless, recycled air of a starship so refreshing.

The door opens suddenly with a quiet _whoosh_ , and Scotty comes barreling in, breathing as though he just ran a marathon.

“Jim!” he gasps jovially as way of greeting, leaning his hands on his knees. He’s grinning ear to ear, a smudge of some sort of grease streaked across his cheek. His accent is as thick and as _Scotty_ as ever, and one of his sleeves looks like it’s been singed more than once. Jim can’t help but laugh.

“I got your request to board,” Scotty says— _He must have run straight_ _here_ , Jim thinks, oddly flattered—and straightens to stride forward and enthusiastically clasp Jim’s hand. “What the hell were you playing at with that, anyway? She’s _your_ ship.”

He looks genuinely bewildered and Jim can only shrug helplessly.

“Procedure?” he suggests, and Scotty’s face darkens as he puts Jim’s meaning together.

“Oh, aye, Captain, you can bet your arse I know all about Starfleet’s _procedures_ ,” he practically spits, and Jim looks at him, surprised. “They made me _testify_ that Marcus actually was the shitgibbon he turned out to be—” Jim snorts and Scotty juts out his chin indignantly, his hands waving wildly as he continues “—like there was ever any smidgen of doubt, an’ then Hikaru said yesterday it was all because you’d been court martialed, like you just went off an’ waged war on the Klingons for _shits an’ giggles_ —”

He stops, shaking his head angrily.

 “It’s all garbage, in my professional opinion,” he says haughtily. “They stick me in a _frozen wasteland_ for one _teensy_ misunderstanding, an’ then they go an’ all but fire you for _dyin’_ —”

“Scotty—” Jim interrupts, gently exasperated, and Scotty looks at him as if he had forgotten Jim was there altogether before he exhales in a huff, smiling sheepishly.

“It’s bloody good to see you, Jim.”

“Likewise, Mr. Scott,” Jim replies fondly, clapping Scotty on the back with a smile. “How’s my ship?” he asks, nodding toward the door before they head into the corridor. There are workers everywhere, nodding politely as they pass and carrying bulky toolboxes off to their various destinations. It doesn’t look as bad as he expected it to, but he supposes superficial repairs don’t account for structural stability.

The ship shudders suddenly beneath them as if it could read his mind, and Jim’s breath catches in his throat. Scotty barely blinks.

“The ship?” he asks incredulously instead, and Jim looks at him nonplussed.

“The ship,” he repeats slowly, wondering when Scotty last slept, but Scotty only shakes his head.

“Forget the _ship_ —” Jim’s eyebrows skyrocket “—how the hell are _you_ , Jim?”

He winces sharply. He’d forgotten Scotty had watched him die.

But he’d guess Scotty hasn’t.

“I’m in one piece,” he says finally, smiling wryly as they step into the lift. A suspicious shine appears in Scotty’s eyes, and Jim can’t decide if it’s a trick of the light or something more emotional in nature.

“Aye,” Scotty replies, his voice thick, “that you are.”

Scotty clears his throat, and Jim averts his eyes to the ground, caught somewhere between touched and unsure of how to respond, but Scotty takes care of that for him.

“Would you like the grand tour, Captain?” he asks, and Jim is grateful for the change of subject, knowing it’s probably for the best.

“I’d be honored, Mr. Scott.”

Scotty spends the next hour leading him around the Enterprise, everywhere from the bridge (“I saved your chair, Captain, I told ‘em you were fond of that one—”) to engineering (“Keenser came up with a clever little alteration to the dilithium circuits, see here—it’s a magnetic amplifier that can provide a power boost straight from the dilithium chambers when the backup generators are dead, sort of like an old fashioned battery charger—”).

Being back on the ship is a balm. His death feels like a distant dream, and he feels comfortable in his own skin for the first time in days. Being with Scotty—another human being, a _friend_ —certainly doesn’t hurt the matter, and their chatter evolves into something decidedly more casual as they meander deck through deck.

“I’m telling you, Jim,” Scotty is saying, and Jim listens amusedly. “Six more weeks an’ it’ll be the finest home brew you’ve ever tasted, damn what Chekov says.”

Except… he won’t _be_ here in six weeks, will he? The reminder hits him like a bucket of ice water, and he smiles weakly.

“You’ll have to let me know how it turns out.”

Scotty looks at him strangely.

“What are you on about?” he asks, bewildered. Then he blanches. “Does Khan’s blood… Jim, can you not get _drunk?_ ”

The look of horror on his face is so genuine that Jim can’t help but burst out laughing.

“No, it’s not that,” he reassures, and Scotty visibly relaxes. “I’m, uh… I’m leaving, Scotty.”

“Leaving?”  Scotty looks at him, bemused. “Leaving what? Not Starfleet?”

Jim shakes his head. The story spills out easily, and Scotty watches him with mounting consternation as he explains Paris’s proposal.

“Rehab?” he repeats distastefully when Jim is finished. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He makes no attempt to hide his skepticism, and Jim huffs a laugh.

“No,” he admits. “I don’t know. It’s gotta be better than nothing, right?”

It’s a conversation he feels like he’s had a thousand times by now, but there’s something oddly refreshing about Scotty’s honest doubt. They’re in the guts of the ship, somewhere near the shuttle bay, and Jim trails his hand absently over one of the consoles.

“I’m not sure it’d be for me,” Scotty replies bluntly, and Jim laughs again.

“That’s what I told Paris. Spock talked me into it,” he confesses, and something about the look Scotty gives him in return makes a flush crawl defensively up his neck.

“Really?” Scotty says, and the way he says it makes Jim think that for whatever reason, he’s not surprised to hear it at all.

“Really,” Jim confirms, sounding more confident than Scotty’s strange tone makes him feel. “He’s coming, too.” At this Scotty stops in his tracks, and Keenser, who joined them somewhere on deck five, walks into him from behind. They exchange a look, and Jim fidgets uncomfortably in the silence.

“ _Really?_ ” Scotty says again, and Jim feels like he’s missed something important. “Does Uhura know?” he asks, and Jim can only shrug awkwardly as the three of them start walking again.

“No idea,” he says honestly, glancing over at Scotty. “Spock said they broke up.”

He’s half expecting another _really_ , but Scotty only nods thoughtfully.

“Not surprised at that,” he says. Jim looks at him curiously, but he doesn’t elaborate. Instead they continue to wander through engineering. They stop and chat with various crewmembers and workers, and Jim is moved by the sheer volume of genuine well-wishes he receives from ensigns and yeomen he’s spoken to fewer times than he can even remember.

It must show on his face, because Scotty smirks knowingly as Yeoman Rand smacks a tearful kiss onto Jim’s cheek before scurrying off to the lift.

“Jim,” he says, smile slipping as Jim waves goodbye to Janice. His voice is quietly hesitant. “I want to show you something.”

Jim raises an eyebrow, watching Scotty uncharacteristically wring his hands together as his eyes flit everywhere but him.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward befuddledly.

“ _Jim_ ,” Scotty says imploringly, finally meeting his gaze. “It’s the warp core.”

_Oh_.

Jim smiles tightly.

“I can handle it, Scotty, it’s fine.”

He doesn’t mean for the words to sound as terse as they do, and Scotty and Keenser exchange another indecipherable look before Scotty bobs his head nervously, his mouth twitching into a facsimile of a smile.

“Right,” he says. “Course you can.”

Except the truth is, Jim _doesn’t_ know if he can handle it. The incident on the bus—Christ, that was only _yesterday—_ sure as hell points towards an emphatic _no_ , but he's not going to cower in fear from the very ship that he was afraid of losing in the first place—the ship that Paris named his so long as he can _prove_ he can handle it.

He's starting to think she had a point.

Jim sucks in a steadying breath, trying to calm his suddenly pounding heart. Going to see the warp core isn't going to kill him. It's a fact he can objectively recognize—a mantra he repeats in his own head to drown out the memory of Spock’s tearful goodbye—but his body betrays him, and he hates how much his own mounting panic feels like his last moments before there was nothing but black.

He’s detachedly aware of the worried looks Scotty shoots him over his shoulder, so he tries to focus on pressing his lips together in what he hopes resembles something akin to reassurance—but going by the growing crease in Scotty’s brow, Jim imagines it's probably more of a grimace. He can taste the hysteria bubbling sour up his gut. His throat bobs as he swallows it down, unsure if it would come out as laughter or tears, but either way, it settles heavy in his chest, acrid and painful.

Something brushes his leg. He all but jumps out of his skin before he looks down and finds Keenser walking tucked close by his side. He's not sure if it's meant to be comforting, or if Keenser just lacks all concept of personal space, but it manages to ground him, and a sudden rush of gratitude eases some of the tension in his muscles as his shoulders drop from where they were hovering somewhere next to his ears.

They head down the narrow stairs leading to the warp core’s external housing. Their boots clunk ominously on the steps, and Jim braces himself, his heart galloping wildly in his chest, and—

He blinks.

The massive, external sphere has been half dismantled. Giant sheets of tritanium are stacked along the bulkhead, and red swathed engineers and construction workers climb in and out of the bowl with tool boxes and goggles, laughing and shouting instructions to one another as they work. Jim can only stare.

“The latest an’ greatest,” Scotty says quietly, and Jim finds himself holding his breath. “After… Khan,” Scotty continues, hesitant, “an’ after, ah, everything else, I went to Starfleet’s Corps of Engineers. I had this idea, see, after the warp cores were knocked loose like that—that’s just shoddy design, if you ask me.”

Jim stares at the glass door at the bottom of the access tunnel. It’s wide open, men and women and aliens crawling in and out as they please, irreverent of the trefoil at the center of his tunneling vision. He remembers every detail of the core without having to see it, like a brand burned into his brain.

“It’s gonna be a standard feature on all starships, after the Enterprise,” Scotty is saying. His voice sounds strangely distant. “The internal housing is going to be magnetically mounted in the socket. No matter how she’s hit, they’ll realign. They’re nae coming loose, Jim.”

He feels himself nodding, and takes a shuddering breath, wondering when his vision became blurry.

“Nothing like that will ever happen again.”

He turns away from the warp core, trembling, and it’s not until he feels Scotty’s grip tight on his upper arm that he realizes they’re walking—out of engineering and into the lift, and one blurry minute later they're in his own quarters, and he's sitting on his own bed, choking back the panic that threatens to set in. Scotty pushes a flask into his hands that he takes with numb fingers.

“Drink that,” Scotty says, fiddling with the thermostat. A sudden blast of cool air flows from the vents.

“What is it?” he hears himself ask. His voice sounds scratchy, and he hears Scotty snort.

“You're probably better off not asking.”

He knocks back a deep swig. It's bitter and burns on the way down, but it warms his gut and clears his senses and he finds himself taking another drink.

“It’s good,” he says weakly, sniffing, and Scotty snorts again.

“I’d bloody hope so, with what I paid for it.”

It's all so bizarrely _normal_. Jim takes in his surroundings—the laundry thrown carelessly in the bottom of the closet, and the unmade bed, and feels his body sag in sudden exhaustion. Everything is exactly as he left it, and he's sitting here with Scotty, passing a flask of something illegal back and forth like they're shooting the shit over the weather, and yet—

Nothing about it feels right.

“Fuck,” he laughs feebly, rubbing his eyes. “How'd I get here, Scotty?”

“Up the lift, down the corridor an’ to the right,” Scotty replies lightly, taking a drink and passing the flask back to him. Jim huffs, a sharp exhale that's something between a laugh and a sigh, and takes another swallow.

They sit in loaded silence, and Jim stares out his viewport at the curve of Earth, following the jagged line of coast—Africa, maybe—he can see with his eyes, just for something to focus on.

Humiliation and gratitude mix in a volatile blend in his stomach. _Or maybe it's just the Romulan ale_ , he thinks sardonically. In either case, it’s a hard call whether he's relieved Scotty was there to catch him, or mortified that he witnessed his emotional breakdown in the first place. Because that’s what it was. He _broke_. He’s broken, and he’s not sure he knows how to fix himself.

He's not sure why he ever thought boarding the Enterprise would be a good idea.

“So,” Scotty says, and Jim tears his eyes away from the viewport as Scotty takes another drink. “Rehab?”

Jim barks a hysterical laugh, struck by the irony.

“Rehab,” he concurs tiredly, and Scotty only nods, passing him the flask.

“When will you be off, then?”

“A week. Paris said it's the only option.”

“Well,” Scotty says, slapping his hands onto his thighs. “That settles it, then, doesn't it?”

Jim looks at him, confused. “Settles what?”

“Do you really think you can just up an’ leave without sayin’ a proper goodbye?” Scotty asks. “Nae, Captain, we’ll be seeing you off whether you like it or not. ‘Sides,” he adds, “Chekov will be sorry he missed you.”

Jim doesn’t have the energy to argue, or wonder what Scotty might be planning. Instead, glad for the change in subject, he asks, “Where is he, anyway?”

Scotty shakes his head fondly. “I sent the wee lad home. He tried working straight through the night, an’ Keenser found him curled up in a Jefferies tube on deck seven.”

Jim’s lips quirk at the corners. “He’s a good kid.”

“Aye, Captain, the best.”

Jim pushes to his feet wearily, damning the shakiness in his legs. He holds out the flask for Scotty to take, but Scotty shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he insists. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

“Thanks,” Jim says, and if he didn’t feel so damn tired, he might have put more effort into making it sound sincere. “I should probably go.”

Scotty doesn’t argue. “I’ll see you to the transporter room. You’ll come to the party, then, yes?” he asks hopefully as they walk into the corridor, and Jim groans.

“Scotty—”

“It’ll be nothing big,” Scotty assures him hastily. “Bridge crew only,” he whispers as they pass a group of junior lieutenants chatting idly in the hall.

“Alright, fine,” Jim agrees, just to avoid the argument. “And don’t call it a _party_ ,” he pleads as they step into the lift.

“Fine,” Scotty acquiesces. “A get together, then.”

“Fine,” Jim says again, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache building behind his eyes. The same operator is working the controls in the transporter room as the doors open to admit them.

“Same coordinates, sir?” she asks breezily as he steps onto the pad.

“Please,” he says before turning to Scotty. “It was good to see you. Sorry I…” he hesitates, glancing at the controls operator. “Sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”

Scotty waves him off. “Shit happens,” he says and Jim snorts. That’s certainly one way of putting it, he supposes. “I’ll see you later,” Scotty says, throwing him a pointed look, and Jim feels his smile growing despite himself.

“Energize,” he says, and the last thing he sees is Scotty’s jaunty salute before a wash of sparks dominates his vision.

* * *

The next few days pass in a blur, moving far more quickly than he thinks he’d like.

Jim ties up all the loose ends he can think of, canceling his next appointment with Dr. Angelo first and foremost. Her secretary puts him on hold, and moments later he’s being lectured—scolded, he recognizes blandly—about the merits of therapy and how perseverance is important for achieving a full recovery.

“I flagged your file,” she says irately. “I thought you might be a flight risk.”

Irritation lances through him as she keeps going, and halfway through her spiel about “the emotional scars of his father’s death,” he hangs up, wishing for more of Scotty’s bootlegged ale.

Using his PADD to buy some more clothes is his second order of business: Jeans, flannels, tee shirts—he splurges on some wool socks—all materializing on his doorstep within the hour. They fill his suitcase with ease, which, once it’s bulging at the seams, he tosses into the corner of his bedroom where it sits every night as a constant reminder of his nearing departure.

The nightmares still haven’t gone away.

Icy fear seeps into his bones as he lays in bed that night, breathing heavily, wondering if they _ever_ will. His communicator is clutched in his hand, and he resists the urge to call Spock. They haven’t spoken since their meeting with Paris, he realizes offhandedly. Not that they ever lived in each other’s pockets, exactly, but he almost finds himself wishing that they were already on the colony, just so that asking for help wouldn’t feel so _intrusive_.

He sinks into an uneasy sleep until he’s woken what feels like only minutes later by the beeping of his comm. _Maybe it’s Spock_ , he thinks hopefully, and scrambles to fish it out of his sheets where he lost it somewhere during the night.

“Kirk here,” he says somewhat breathlessly.

“Jim!” he hears, and his heart sinks just a fraction.

“Mr. Scott,” he says wryly, trying to shake the odd sense of disappointment that’s settled over him like a blanket.

“We’re all meeting tonight at Chumley’s,” Scotty says without preamble, and Jim feels his stomach sink even further. He’d forgotten about the damn party. “Seven o’clock.”

“Scotty,” he says tiredly, “I don’t think—”

“If you don’t show up, we’re comin’ to you,” Scotty says firmly, and the line goes dead. He stares at his comm in disbelief and then sighs, resigned. A quick glance to the clock on the bedside table reveals it’s past noon, and Jim stares at the numbers in astonishment—he slept later than he thought.

He drags himself from his nest of blankets and into the sonics. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see his friends, he muses as the vibrations wash over his body. More so that he wishes the circumstances were different, he decides. It feels far too much like an _actual_ pity party for his comfort levels.

_Kaiidth_ , he reminds himself as he runs a hand through his hair. It needs cut, he realizes absently. _Kaiidth_ , he repeats in his head, his lips forming the word under his breath. Kaiidth, kaiidth, kaiidth.

He turns off the sonics, strolling naked to his closet and pursing his lips as he looks at what’s left for him to wear. Everything but his uniforms and a couple of ratty old tee shirts are already packed, and he sighs as he turns to tug on yesterday’s jeans. One of the tee shirts will have to do, and he chooses one at random and tugs it off the hanger. It’s a little too loose and there’s a hole under the armpit, but hopefully it won’t be too obvious under his jacket.

He has to go to the party. Or “get together,” as he asked Scotty to call it. There’s no getting around it—he knows his crew well enough to know that they will in fact show up at his door, and there’s no telling what a vodka soaked Chekov might do to his apartment. Last year’s Christmas party proved that much.

Jim scratches at the stubble on his chin, deciding not to shave, and meanders into his kitchen. One plate of rubbery, replicated scrambled eggs later he’s sprawled on his couch, calling Bones on his PADD for the third time this week, but his brow furrows as the line keeps ringing without an answer. Not that Bones is obligated to answer every time he calls, but it’s the first time since the warp core that he hasn’t gotten through.

And it’s not exactly important, he thinks. Griping about a party that in all reality is completely unproblematic is nothing but bellyaching. Bones would probably say it’ll be _good_ for him. Which, to be fair, is probably true. Wasn’t he the one who wanted to reestablish normalcy in the first place?

He passes the time packing and repacking his bag, catching up on his admittedly meager correspondence—his boarding pass is saved to the home page of his PADD, and his stomach turns uncomfortably every time he looks at it—and debating the merits of downing the rest of Scotty’s flask before the party. He winds up tucking it into his waistband as he walks out the door and into the cool evening air.

It’s a Tuesday. There aren’t many people out and about in the streets, and out of uniform, he’s getting fewer looks than he braced himself for as he left his apartment. The anonymity is nice—he’d forgotten how _good_ it feels not to be cooped up, and the dread that had settled unbidden onto his shoulders starts to slide off as he sucks in deep breaths of brisk air.

Chumley’s sits on a corner about two miles from his apartment. Jim can see the flickering red lights of its blocky sign a handful of streets down. Butterflies erupt in his stomach—although he couldn’t exactly say why—as he approaches the door.

He’s a few minutes late, but Scotty all but pounces on him the moment he steps inside.

“Jim!” he greets, plainly delighted, and Jim feels a smile quirk his lips. “You made it!”

“For my landlord’s sake,” he jokes as Scotty nods to the bouncer and leads him towards the back of the bar. “Not my own. After what happened to the rec room last year? There’s no way I’d get my security deposit back if Chekov went _half_ as hard.”

Scotty giggles, clearly tipsy, and says, “Aye, well, Sulu will be keepin’ an eye on him tonight. We’re just glad you came.” He pauses, eyeing Jim out of the corner of his eye. “There were bets, you know, on whether or not you’d show up. You just won me a hundred credits.”

“Who lost?” Jim asks, wondering if he should be offended. They round a corner and Jim sees half a dozen familiar faces light up at his entrance, and someone’s arm finds its way around his shoulders.

“Me,” a familiar voice grumbles in his ear. “This _would_ remind me of our Academy days, except apparently we’re the ones dragging _you_ out now.”

“Bones,” he says, lost for words, turning to face the man attached to the arm and finding himself oddly choked up.

Bones smirks. “You didn’t think I’d let you leave without seeing you off myself, did you?”

“I should’ve known,” he says, his voice coming out thicker than he hoped it would.

“You’re damn right, you should’ve.”

Bones pulls him into a rough hug, and Jim resists the urge to bury his face in his shoulder, his eyes burning mysteriously beneath his lids. But when he pulls away, he’s surrounded by the rest of the bridge crew—being pulled in tight by Sulu and having kisses pressed into his cheeks by Uhura and Chekov—and if a few tears manage to fall anyway, at least he’s not the only one.

Bones shifts to the side as Chekov ducks under his arm, and Jim double takes as he catches sight of Spock lingering cautiously outside the circle. He catches Jim’s eye, his lips curling upward at the corners accompanied by the tiniest of nods, and affection bursts warm and bright in Jim’s chest.

He reaches out, snagging Spock by the wrist, and pulls him into the fray.

He can see the surprise flit across Spock’s face before Jim wraps his arms around his torso and tucks his chin over his shoulder. For a brief moment, there’s nothing but stiff muscle and unsure hands twitching helplessly at his sides, but then they settle around his waist and his arms relax, and in ten long years Jim doesn’t think he’s ever felt more at home than he does in this exact moment.

* * *

Chumley’s has the best queso in the city.

Jim swirls a chip through the pot of melted cheese, popping it into his mouth and listening to his crew laugh along as Scotty regales them—probably for the fifth time at _least_ , he muses—about the time he beamed into the water turbine.

“I thought I was gonna _die_ ,” he slurs indignantly. “Who thinks to put _blades_ in the plumbing?”

“Definitely not the same person who puts a distillery in their bathroom,” Jim calls out, grinning.

“Oi,” Scotty cries, frowning. “That’s not hurting anyone, is it?”

“Depends on how the booze turns out,” he shoots back, and the table erupts into laughter.

It hadn’t taken long for them to settle around the table, passing around finger foods and strong drinks and decidedly not talking about what happened the month before—but it’s nice. Bones is sprawled in a chair to his left, nursing his second mint julep of the night, and Spock sits to his right, close enough that their knees press together under the table.

He hadn’t expected Spock to be here. If he’s being totally honest, he hadn’t even expected Scotty to invite him, even if he immediately feels horrible for thinking it. It’s just as much Spock’s going away party as it is his, he supposes—even if “Spock” and “party” aren’t typically words that Jim would ever expect to hear in the same sentence.

A drunk Vulcan. Wouldn’t that be a sight.

Instead he’s taking measured sips of some brothy soup, and Jim smirks, imagining Spock munching on a mozzarella stick like the ones on the platter between Chekov and Sulu. And his _clothes_. His shirt is a deep forest green—dark enough that it looks black in the low light—but it brings out color in his skin that’s so exotically alien Jim is loath not to stare. The butterflies in his stomach haven’t gone away, and some part of him finds it oddly thrilling that they’re here together. That Spock— _his friend, Spock_ —has chosen to come, and to sit next to him, and to let Jim press their legs together like it’s not entirely unnecessary.

A deep snort of laughter from across the table snaps him back to the present. Spock’s shoe bumps his under the table and his stomach somersaults wildly in his gut, refusing to settle no matter how much he tries to control it. He sniffs at his drink—it’s fruity and strong, but he’s not quite sure what’s in it—and takes a long swallow, turning to Bones instead.

“When did you get in?” he asks, trying to swallow the nervous energy that’s building in his chest.

“Just after noon,” Bones drawls, and Jim nods, suddenly understanding why he hadn’t taken his call. “I’m staying at your place tonight, by the way.”

“Sure,” Jim says. “Now it’ll really be like our Academy days.”

Bones snorts, sucking down the rest of his drink.

“This is nothing like our Academy days, Jim.”

He shoves back his chair, heading over to their little bar to refill his drink, and Jim stands to follow. Scotty had rented out a private room, away from prying eyes.

“Uhura’s idea,” he said when they first sat down, toasting his pilsner in her direction. “We thought it might be a nice wee surprise.”

Jim finds himself feeling immensely grateful for his friends.

Bones stirs another mint julep, sipping it lightly and making a face before adding another two fingers of bourbon. Jim leans on the bar beside him, swirling the remnants of his cocktail in the bottom of his glass.

“So what’s going on there?” Bones asks quietly, jerking his head back in the direction of the table. Jim’s brow furrows.

“What’s going on where?”

Bones rolls his eyes. “Don’t play stupid,” he snaps, voice still low. “With _Spock_.”

The same nervous energy that had started to settle down in his chest comes rearing back full force.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jim says, his heart beating abnormally fast in his chest.

“Sure you don’t, Jim,” Bones says sarcastically, smacking his lips as he takes another sip of his drink. Apparently satisfied, he heads back to the chattering table. “Call me once you figure it out.”

Jim stands there, dumbfounded, staring at the ice floating in his glass.

The thought that Bones would imply… Jim shakes his head. He doesn’t know _what_ Bones is implying. Spock is his _friend_. And that’s a term they’re just starting to use three _years_ into their working relationship.

There’s nothing.

He downs the rest of his glass, turning to pour more, and jumps when a small hand settles on his arm.

“Your shots on me,” Uhura smiles, taking his glass and handing him another. He raises an eyebrow and swallows its contents, appreciating the smooth taste of what turns out to be a nicely aged whiskey.

“Jack, straight up,” he says, smiling wryly. “I’d forgotten.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally,” she deadpans, nudging him gently in the ribs with her elbow. The smile on her face belies her words.

Jim laughs, the blurry memory of their first encounter swimming in the forefront of his mind.

“That was a crazy night,” he admits. “I don’t think I ever apologized for getting you in trouble.”

He’s only half joking, but she laughs anyway.

“It wasn’t _completely_ your fault,” she says, shaking her head. The smile starts to slip from her face. “If I had known then, how things would turn out….”

She trails off and Jim nods. “Yeah.”

She leans back against the bar, watching as Scotty drips a long line of queso down his shirt without noticing, deep in his conversation with Chekov. He can hear Bones telling Sulu about Jojo, and Spock sits silently, content to just observe. Jim doesn’t have to see his face to know that his eyebrow is cocked somewhere near his bangs.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Uhura says finally, looking at him. “I know you came for us, and not yourself, but still—it’s good to see you.”

“Are you kidding? I’d never turn down the opportunity for a good party.”

It sounds even weaker out loud than it did in his head, and Uhura’s frown only deepens.

“You’re probably tired of hearing this, but how _are_ you doing, Jim?”

“Better,” he says automatically, still staring at the back of Spock’s head. He tears his eyes away to smile at her half heartedly. “This is great. Seriously. Thanks for doing all this.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her reluctance is practically tangible as she makes the decision not to press for details, instead bringing her glass to her lips for another sip.

“What about you? I heard you guys broke up.” He changes the subject, nodding his head toward the table. “You doing okay?”

Uhura shrugs, smiling ruefully.

“I’m fine,” she says, and it sounds truthful enough. “It was a long time coming, I think.”

He recalls Scotty’s words on the Enterprise: He said he wasn’t surprised that they had broken up. Jim glances back at Bones, thinking on his words from minutes before, and wonders what he missed that everyone else hadn’t—what he missed that apparently made their breakup so inevitable.

“I’m glad he’s going with you. I think he needs it more than he lets on,” she continues, and Jim looks at her, surprised. He’s not sure what to say, but Uhura smiles again. “And now I can finally focus on my career.”

Jim barks a laugh, and her smile only grows.

“Couldn’t tell you weren’t,” he says, meaning every word. She tosses her head back and laughs, and Jim is suddenly struck by how beautiful she is, the solemn air lifting. “So what’s next? Are there even any languages left for you to learn?”

“I thought about teaching,” she admits, smirking at his backwards compliment, “but Sulu asked me to be his communications officer, and I said yes.”

“Good for you,” he says softly, meaning it. Then he smirks, glancing towards an oblivious Sulu. “I need to watch out for him,” Jim says and shakes his head, feigning fear. “First he steals my crew, next he’ll be stealing my ship.”

“Oh, Jim,” Uhura laughs sadly. “No one could ever replace you.”

* * *

One by one they start to slink home.

Sulu leaves first, hugging Jim again as he heads for the door.

“I promised Ben I wouldn’t be out too late,” he explains. “We have to be up early—we’re spending a week in Big Sur before I ship out with the Saratoga.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Spock watching them curiously and feels his cheeks turn pink.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, willing his face to stop glowing. “Tell him I said hi, okay?”

Sulu smiles, clapping his shoulder. “Will do. Take care, Jim.”

Uhura follows shortly after, and then Scotty and Chekov beam sleepily back up to the Enterprise—“Save me a bottle of that homebrew,” Jim tells Scotty, pressing his flask back into his hands—and when Bones starts drifting off into an exhausted, mildly intoxicated stupor, it’s just Jim and Spock.

“You all packed?” he asks Spock quietly, mostly just to fill the silence. A waitress is clearing their plates from the table, the noise from the main bar starting to decline. It’s late.

“Affirmative, Captain,” Spock replies. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Jim snorts. “Yeah. I took care of it all a couple days ago.” He pauses and then says, “I can’t believe we’re leaving tomorrow. It doesn’t feel real.”

“Captain?” Spock is looking at him, perplexed.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says. “I dunno, I guess— I guess sometimes this all feels like it’s happening to someone else.”

The glass in his hand is full of ice water. He switched over a while back, and he rattles the ice cubes, draining what’s left and setting it on the table. When he looks back up, Spock is watching him curiously again, and he chuckles.

“We should probably get going. Early start tomorrow, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and shakes Bones’s shoulder. “Bones. _Bones_.”

Bones snorts awake, rubbing his eyes and yawning wide enough that his nose scrunches between his eyes.

“Precious,” Jim deadpans, dodging his punch a moment later. “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty. Time to get home to your tower.”

“I’ll show you Sleeping Beauty,” Bones growls, stumbling to his feet and slinging a bag Jim hadn’t noticed before over his shoulder. Spock looks at him how he might look at a particularly interesting insect, and Jim finds himself laughing.

“Sure you will,” Jim agrees, and the three of them make for the door. The night is chilly but clear, though only a few stars are visible above the lights of the city. Jim can see a shuttle nearing from down the street, looks at Bones’s drooping face, and resigns himself to his fate. He sighs.

"I’ll see you in the morning, Spock?”

He’ll take all the reassurance he can get.

“Affirmative, Jim,” Spock replies. Jim nods, sighing in a rush. His breath fogs in the night air.

“I’ll see you then,” he says, and Spock’s face softens.

“Good night.”

The shuttle pulls up to the corner, and Jim follows behind Bones as he boards, turning to wave goodbye as the doors shut behind them. Spock offers a salute from the other side of the glass, and Jim represses a shudder—and the memory of a different salute—as they pull away from the curb.

The cabin is blessedly empty. Jim shuffles down the aisle to plop down next to Bones—the emergency exit row, he notes amusedly—and leans his head against the back of the seat.

“Nothing going on there, huh?”

“Shut up.”

The ride back to his apartment passes quickly—no one else boards and there’s no one else to get off—and they both toe out of their shoes inside the door. Bones beelines for his sofa, flopping face down onto the cushions and dropping his bag unceremoniously onto the rug next to him.

“How many drinks did I have?” Bones asks weakly as Jim makes for his closet.

“Four?” he calls back as he pulls his spare bedding from the top shelf. “Five?”

Bones snorts self-deprecatingly as Jim tosses him the pillows and blankets, looking up over the arm of the couch with bloodshot eyes.

“I told you—this is nothing like our Academy days. I didn’t _get_ hangovers back then, Jim,” he implores desperately, and Jim feels a pang of sympathy for the headache he knows Bones will be nursing in the morning. Bones shoves a pillow under his head, throwing his belt onto the floor. “What happened to us?”

“Life?” Jim offers dryly, setting a glass of water on the coffee table. He sees Bones’s eyebrow twitch upward in consideration. “You got a hypo for that hangover?”

“Course I do,” Bones snaps. “Saving it till morning.”

His words are slurred and his eyes are closed, and Jim shakes his head in exasperation.

“Then my work here is done. ’Night, old man.”

“I’ve got a hypo for you, too,” Bones warns as Jim heads back to his bedroom.

“Uh-huh.”

Seconds later, Jim hears snoring coming from the couch and shakes his head again. He changes into a pair of ancient sweats and foregoes brushing his teeth to drop straight onto his mattress.

His sheets are pleasantly cool and he _feels_ tired, but sleep eludes him. The sounds of the city outside are the same as they ever were, and so are the lights casting shadows on his ceiling, and the almost indiscernible hum of the air conditioning, and the glow of the clock on his bedside table.

The depth of the rut he’s been walking strikes him suddenly.

It’s the same path of self-pity his mother walked for years after his father’s death—the same unacknowledged grief, the same stubborn independence… His professors were always quick to say how like his father he was in bearing, but he privately felt he took more after his mother.

He knows where this path ends.

Jim sighs, rolling over onto his side as an odd sense of peace settles over him. In the morning, he leaves for the colony. He’s getting out of the rut. It’s enough, for now.

Jim doesn’t dream that night.

* * *

“For as much as society’s claimed to advance, you’d think security checkpoints wouldn't be such a _bitch_.”

“The only one bitching is you, Bones—”

“Yeah, and see if I stop.”

The shuttle port is buzzing with civilians and officers alike, swarming around the terminal in a colorful blend of human and alien. Jim strolls with Bones through the lower level—intraplanetary flights—where various shuttles not reporting to larger ships zoom in and out of the hangar.

“I’m gonna be _late_ ,” Bones gripes.

“You still have like twenty minutes, relax.” Jim rolls his eyes. “I thought you _took_ something for that hangover— hey— _ow!_ ”

He rubs the sore spot on his neck, shooting daggers at Bones, who looks back at him smugly as he puts the cap back on the empty hypo.

“Allergy shot,” Bones says, far too pleased with himself. “I told you I had one for you.”

“Asshole.”

“God only knows what’s gonna be on that rock of yours,” Bones says, souring again as they weave through the crowd. “Better safe than sorry.”

Bones had only ever planned to stay the night. Which, in retrospect, certainly makes sense, Jim thinks as they count the signs, looking for Bones’s shuttle and spotting it in the distance. Gate A42 is comparatively tiny, tucked into the back corner of the lower level. They slow down as they approach, and Jim sighs as Bones digs in his bag for his boarding pass.

“I know,” he concedes, still rubbing at his neck. Bones gives him a look he can’t decipher.

“Have you heard from Spock?” he asks, voice neutral. Jim nods.  
  
“Yeah, he already checked in. He’s waiting upstairs.”

Bones nods wordlessly, turning to face him. The shuttle taking him back to Georgia is a rust bucket, Jim thinks privately, his lips twitching. Bones already seems to be pointedly ignoring it.

It strikes him suddenly that this is the last time he’ll see Bones for a whole _year_. Three hundred and sixty five standard days. It’ll be the longest they’ve gone without each other since the Academy, Jim realizes with a start—since the time Bones interned in an Andorian hospital for a semester.

Gary said he had moped for weeks, and Jim denied it vehemently, but he begrudgingly thinks he might have had a point.

They spend a long moment looking at each other, and then they move in at the same time, wrapping each other in a tight hug.

“I swear to god, Jim, if you die out there, I’ll kill you,” Bones grinds out harshly. Jim’s squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as they’ll allow.

“I know.”

They pull apart, sniffling quietly, and Jim takes the opportunity to stoop down and pull two gift-wrapped boxes from his bag, passing them to Bones with a sad smile.

“Give these to Jojo for me.”

“She’s gonna be mad at you, Jim,” Bones says as he tucks them carefully inside the top of his bag. “She wanted you to come for Christmas.”

“Tell her I’ll miss her?” Jim says, looking at him meaningfully, and Bones deflates.

“Aw, hell, kid, she’s gonna miss you, too,” he says gruffly, hugging him again, and Jim lets him, resisting the urge to sag against his chest.

“ _Now boarding flight 3968 to Atlanta_.”

Jim claps Bones on the back, forcing a smile.

“That’s you. Don’t crash,” he manages to joke. Bones’s face darkens.

“That’s not funny,” he spits, eyeing the shuttle disdainfully. Most of the passengers boarding look at least twice Bones’s age. “Now get out of here. Scat. You have your own flight to catch.”

Jim sighs, smiling ruefully. “See you in a year?”

Bones’s face softens as he shoulders his bag.

“Take care of yourself, Jim.”

He tosses a wave over his shoulder as he hands his pass to the flight attendant, and Jim watches until he disappears inside the shuttle—his throat oddly tight—before picking up his own bag and walking away.

Upstairs, Jim finds Spock reading quietly at their own gate, and finds himself sighing again as he drops into the seat next to him.

“I trust Doctor McCoy made his flight?” Spock asks.

“Yeah,” Jim answers shortly, rubbing the spot between his eyes. He pulls out his own boarding pass, twisting it between his fingers and resisting the urge to let his head drop to Spock’s shoulder.

“We’ll be alright, right, Spock?” he asks instead, and Spock looks up from his PADD to give him the not-smile he finds himself growing immensely fond of. He opens his mouth to answer, but is interrupted by the cool voice of the flight attendant on the overcom.

“ _Last call to Tarsus IV_.”

Jim smiles and claps Spock on his shoulder.

“That’s us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Sorry?
> 
> I was really excited to hear that Discovery was going to focus on Tarsus when the news hit a couple weeks back. I think it has a lot of unexplored potential, so this is sort of my own exploration of the concept, Spirk style!
> 
> If you wanna talk more, hit me up on [Tumblr!](http://iflailfic.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed my first chapter. It's been one helluva WIP, but I'm pretty proud of it. I have a big bulk of this story planned, so bear with me, because I'm really excited about the direction I'm taking things! And that being said, please note tags are going to be updated as the story progresses.
> 
> I have a LOT of silly head canons about the little universe I'm creating here; things that probably don't matter in the grand scheme of things—the layout of the lecture hall, or actually presenting the Le-Matya Conundrum, what Spock orders at the restaurant, etc.—but help me with world building and visualizing my setting nonetheless. If you're at all interested in chatting, message me on Tumblr!! I would love to hear from you and soundboard ideas.
> 
> Probably the most important thing I'd like to say is that this story is intended to be a canon-compliant work. It's meant to fill in some of the missing time between ST:ID and STB. I'm pulling a lot of details from Memory Alpha and an actual physical Star Trek encyclopedia I own, but I'm also tweaking some details to my advantage, so while it's technically canon-compliant in terms of AOS, some things might not quite adhere to your expectations if you're a canon purist.
> 
> But those are my disclaimers! I really hope you subscribe and stick around. At the very least, follow me [here!](http://iflailfic.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, because I'll be posting updates and other fun tidbits there, too. Thanks, everyone!!


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